


The Girl in the Window「BBC Sherlock」

by littlexblue



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Crime Scenes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holmes Brothers, I Blame Tumblr, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, John Watson's Blog, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Murder, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Sherlock-centric, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 78,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlexblue/pseuds/littlexblue
Summary: After a series of letters keeping her updated on her aunt's slowly declining health, Julia R. Fuller decides that London is the place to be. Leaving behind an emotionally exhausting life of unemployment and discomfort in Glasgow, she takes the quickest flight to be at Mrs. Martha Hudson's side. Upon arrival, Ms. Fuller quickly begins to realise that the man who had written her is more of a puzzle than she could have imagined.





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> A few things will be a bit different (i.e. Mrs. Hudson living above Sherlock and John rather than below). 
> 
> Please don't hate me lkajshgsjk okay, please enjoy.


	2. The Girl In The Window Of 221B

 

❧ 

 

 **221B Baker street**.

Just as her aunt had directed, Julia Ruth Fuller had climbed into a cab at London Heathrow and driven to the nearest station, where she had walked from there on upon exhausted feet. Jet lag had been a pain in the arse as soon as she had stepped foot off her plane, but no matter. Determined to find the infamous little apartment, she followed the map she had purchased from the gift-shop, nose deep inside its pages, her auburn hair a flurry as it flew in stray strands from her messy braid. She passed by different boutiques, taking her time and pausing to eye up the latest fashion within the window. If she weren't such a bashful tourist and actually had the money, perhaps she would duck in and treat herself, but seeing as the plane tickets had sucked her savings dry... Julia wasn't in the best financial situation, and thus wasn't in a place to go spending willy-nilly.

The young woman paused for a moment, eyeing up her shambled appearance: she was a plain girl with a decently slim frame, her neck long and elegant and her eyes a shade of pacific blue. Her long trench coat was a shade of pale greyish khaki and she was dressed formally in a mauve blazer, a soft off-white blouse and a pair of grey slim-fit cut-offs. Not really winning any beauty pageants, but it would work for now. These were her best clothes, too. After her mother had refused to come with her, she had been stuck visiting her aunt with no way of flying back to her home in Glasgow. She was unemployed back home and had been searching for a job at the time when her aunt Martha mentioned in her letter that she hadn't been feeling too well lately. She had always been close with her aunt, unlike her mother and father.

They had wanted nothing to do with her after her little drug scandal, back when she had only been a wee little thing. Julia adored her, and seeing that her mother wouldn't even come see her in her time of need, it had infuriated her. She had ignored all of her protesting, the night she had announced her little trip ending in Julia storming from the house. The young woman hadn't set foot upon the property since and had packed her things that night, leaving early. Julia had even gone to great lengths in order to block her mother's number from her phone for the time being, which she was eternally grateful to Max -- her best friend since diapers -- for allowing her to borrow her old Blackberry until she had returned. It was nice to be able to forget about things and just enjoy her time here.

As Julia took a moment to collect herself, trying to ignore how the lump in her throat grew, she hovered upon the street corner and pushed her glasses up further onto the bridge of her nose. She then continued to study the map with great scrutiny in her turquoise pools, until she was abruptly jarred to a stop while crossing the street by a taxi cab. She wheeled around as it bumped her behind, slamming her hand against the window and making eye contact with the driver. They both gave each other accusatory glares and then went on their way, although the rosette continued to fume for a few more blocks. Finally, she found the adjoining avenue and turned the corner, stepping straight onto the sidewalk that ran along Baker street. Leafing through the many papers within her hands, she glanced up at the apartment buildings.

Julia admired the terraces and smiled softly, wondering if her aunt had been kind enough to the neighbourhood to bless her own with her various flowers and creeping ivies. Her pace slowed as she carefully examined the doors, trying to find the one in question. Martha had mentioned it would be near a sandwich shop with a red sign reading  _Speedy's_. Her legs were exhausted by time she had made it. Stepping up to the dark-painted door, she noticed that the knocker was crooked and frowned. Julia straightened it out carefully before reaching for the door, hoping it would be left unlocked just as Martha had said it would be. She sighed heavily as she found that it was closed up tight. Perhaps they were out for the afternoon... no matter! She reached into her purse, rifling around before finally coming upon the extra key that her aunt had had made for herself, but had never gotten around to using.

It had been sent to her by Sherlock Holmes, or whoever  _that_  was. The two had exchanged letters back forth after her aunt had become too weak to write. Her heart warmed at the thought of someone being so lovely as to assist an elderly woman when it came to these types of favours, even if it was something as tedious as writing back to her own niece. He must have gone out of his way in order to do so, seeing as he explained that he was such a busy man. A  _very_  busy man. Mr. Holmes had been sure to express that-- he had done so rather grossly in fact. Oddly enough though, she wondered how a man  _so_  engrossed in his work could take the time out of his day to answer simple letters regarding casual discussion, rather than the subject of her own aunt's health. In a way... his mail had been a little ray of sunshine during her recent days.

What with her own family disputes, her losing her job, as well as the loss of her own apartment; it had all piled up, and yet Sherlock's letters had never ceased to brighten up even her dreariest evenings. The door to 221B open up after a momentary struggle with the lock, and the first thing that hit her was the damp and musty smell of the stairway. It wasn't unpleasant in any way, no-- it in fact smelt homey. It was something she could get used to. Julia scuttled in and shut the door behind her, turning and looking up the stairway with her crimson lashes fluttering in the dim light. Ascending the staircase, she came to the first landing and followed the sharp bend upward, the old timber-wood creaking and cracking and complaining aloud. Julia could tell that they were old and it would be impossible to go out and come home during the evening without making a racket.

The young woman eventually came to a final stop, reaching the flat without much more trouble. The floorboards shifted beneath her weight, however, as she edged herself to the entrance into the living room and leaned inward.

"Hello?" she called, but nobody answered. "Aunt Martha? I'm here..."

Her attempts to find someone awake and present were squandered and she sighed softly, sauntering inside. Milky grey light shown in through two large windows, the drapes tied back in order to allow as much of it in as possible. Her attention was drawn to the obnoxious neon yellow spray paint along the wall, a violin set neatly upon the large table parallel to the couch below it. Her eyes found themselves following through to a small desk with scattered papers, and finally, a dainty music stand amidst the chaos of the room.

There were a few sheets of notes covered in scrawled ink. Curious, she plodded over, setting down her bags within the nearest armchair and placing her keys within the pocket of her coat. They physically caused the item of clothing to grow heavier, it seemed, and thus she removed her coat from her shoulders, immediately growing more comfortable. Julia then examined the sheet music and smiled softly to herself. Sherlock was a fan of music, and as she allowed her marine set to scan her surroundings, she took note of a fascination with books and literature. She took a deep gulp of the apartment's unique and pleasant aroma, and simpered further.

That's when her eyes fell upon the skull upon the bookshelf. She froze from where she stood in the window pane and averted her eyes, swallowing uneasily. Julia could feel her stomach flip. It had to be fake. Brushing a strand or two of hair from her eyes, she returned her attention to the morbid looking item and chewed upon her bottom lip, tearing pieces of dead skin from its surface. What on earth would this man want to do with a  _skull_? Was it some sort of decorative item? Halloween had been quite some time ago. Initially Julia wanted to read the music and try and make sense of the song, but her curiosity soon got the better of her. The rosette made her way over to the shelving unit and picked the skull up with rather distrustful hands, as if the marrow would dance to life like in a horror movie.

"This is London," she thought aloud, reminding herself of any possibility, no matter how absurd. "Nothing is ever dull here." The skull was cool to the touch and smelled almost musty to her, as if it had been sitting around for quite some time. It had not been gathering dust though, so as it would seem. It must have been moved around frequently. Julia set it back up on the shelf and stepped quietly over to the window to hover once more, looking out over the people passing through the street and the taxi just pulling away from dropping somebody off. The sound of the door opening downstairs was the first thing to find her ears, as well as the gentle approach of two masculine voices. One was softer and more higher in pitch, the other deep and faint beneath the floorboards. The stairs creaked and she swallowed gently, preparing to meet her aunt's renters.

Perhaps it would have made more sense, she wondered as she glanced out the window, if she had taken her things up to her aunt's place for the night instead of intruding on their private home. The first to step through the door was a short man with greying hair and the faint beginnings of crows feet upon either sides of his eyes. He had a grim sort of look on his face at first, a bit confused by her appearance, his mouth opening to speak. "Mr. Holmes?" Julia inquired, smiling gently. "Pardon my intrusion, I was just stopping by to see if my aunt was up and around. You mentioned in your letters that she..."

The next gentleman to enter was taller in comparison, probably about six-foot in height, maybe a bit more. His head adorned a thick cap of dark chocolate-brown curls, his skin pale yet youthful in comparison to his companion and his eyes were a biting, clear shade of arctic. She felt as if she had been dipped in ice-water the moment he looked at her, and admittedly they stopped her in her tracks. "... that she refused to rest." After finally finishing her sentence, she swallowed gently. Julia couldn't break her eye contact with the man in question.

"John Watson, actually... hello," the older man corrected, clearing his throat, shooting Sherlock a glance. This gave the rosette a chance to look away from that whip-sharp gaze. A pleasant smile laced Watson's lips as he stepped forward, picking up her bags in order to move them elsewhere. "... it's quite alright. We, uh, weren't expecting visitors, that's all."

"Not at all," affirmed Sherlock, one of his dark brows twitching upwards in a bitter sort of motion. A pang of anxiety rushed through her and she felt her ears burn in shame, looking at the carpet. His shoes were polished and scuffless. Julia could feel his fixed stare chewing into her, scrutinising her. Perhaps she had been a bit too quick to romanticise this man.

"Can we offer you some tea, erm--" the more positive man suggested, but then faltered.

Oh yes, how rude of her! She hadn't even introduced herself. "Julia. Julia Fuller, thank you," she finished for him, nodding and offering a flash of her pearly whites. "I'd love a cup, if it wouldn't trouble you."

"Nonsense!" Watson scoffed. "Your aunt is usually the one offering us tea, especially whenever we have guests... but with her finally getting the rest she needs, I suppose it's only right if we're the hospitable ones."

Julia beamed as the older man chuckled and tucked some hair behind her ear, now ignoring the glowering man near the doorway. "Why don't you have a seat? You must be exhausted," John continued as he disappeared off into the next room, which she assumed was the kitchen. She had to admit, he was quite right to offer her rest. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, the young woman strolled over to the nearest place to sit, taking note that Sherlock himself had moved finally from his gargoyle-like stillness. 

However, before she could take a seat, she was stopped by his rumbling voice. "That is  _my_  seat," he pointed out bluntly. Swallowing dryly, she nodded and made for the next, only to clear her throat and move away. Perhaps it would be best to sit upon the couch then,  _hm_? Julia came to rest there, holding back a groan of fatigue.

Water hissed, followed by the sound of a gas stove clicking and then lighting. John Watson then returned to the room, settling down in the armchair across from Sherlock. Mr. Holmes, in the meantime, was leaning forward with his hands pressed together in a near prayer-like stance, his elbows propped up upon his knees and his index fingers pressed to his lips. He was staring at the ground for a moment, and as the light cast across his face, his head turned and he caught her ogling at him. Julia's breath hitched and her eyes widened slightly. Damn. "You have questions, I presume?" he inquired drily. John shifted uncomfortably. Here we go. "Judging by that dumb-founded expression on your face, I am not living up to your expectations, am I?"

"No!" Julia protested, perhaps a bit too loudly. Both men were staring at her now. "No, I mean... that is to say that I was expecting you to be about my aunt's age. You wrote so wisely." Way to go, Julia.

Sherlock's brows lowered. "You're nervous. Naturally so. You've been tense and uptight all your life, most likely due to severely strict guidance from your parents. You've gone to private schools; you never enjoyed the uniforms, yet you wear such formal clothing, even while on a plane," he explained suddenly, chattering on and on. Her lips parted. Just moments ago she had been met with silence, not even a simple  _'hello'_ similarly to the one John had managed to muster, and now he was basically telling her bits and pieces from her life story. "You don't necessarily need glasses, you just wear them to look smarter, giving you that  _academic look_  you'll never really live up to. You're single and unemployed judging by the fact that you've travelled out to London during a weekday, and yet somehow you've managed to make it out here without any financial trouble." He paused and his lips curled up ever so faintly in such a sickeningly wicked grin. "Saved funds from mummy and daddy?"

Julia opened her mouth, then shut it as he continued. "You obviously care much about your appearance and understand at least some aspects of women's fashion. You've taken piano lessons given your long fingers, and... you sing, too." Once he had finally finished, she turned her head to Watson, who flattened his lips and gave her a look that explained to her that this was a normal thing for him. Even despite such a blunt and honest description, and not to mention a huge intrusion on her privacy, Mr. Holmes had read her like an open book.

"Completely correct," she murmured softly, nodding her head. She was flabbergasted to say the least. "What do you call that? Your technique, I mean."

"Deducing," John Watson enunciated. "He does it to pretty much everyone, and trust me, it can get on your nerves!"

"Not at all," Julia admitted keenly. "I find it fascinating."

Sherlock's head tilted slightly from the corner of her vision and she noticed how his eyes pinched slightly, a ghost of a smile feathering across his features. Was that approval she had just seen? Or was he mocking her somehow for making such a statement? Julia's tongue passed over her lips. John allowed his head to roll back and let out a dry chuckle. "It will get old, fast. Don't encourage him."

A high-pitched whistle rose up into the air, signalling that the water had boiled and was ready for tea. Fuller hesitated, wondering if she should go and help. "Do you need a hand, John?" she asked, coming to stand once more. Crossing over the carpet, she finally found hardwood and headed for the entrance to the scullery, when suddenly a hand caught the cuff of her blazer.

Her head snapped around so quick that she didn't have much time to think. Sherlock stared up at her with inquisitive eyes. "Mr. Holmes?"

"You are not to stay here. You're too much of a distraction," Sherlock insisted. "We have work to do. Mrs. Hudson needs you, and that's it, so do us a favor and leave us be."

Her hands were trembling by time he was finished, and as he looked her in the eye, it was obvious that he noticed this. Sherlock released her, realizing what he had really said, and let her leave to help John in the kitchen. She couldn't deny how her heart had sank when he had dismissed her so easily like a puppy dog without a place. Julia felt a bit put off now. He had been so friendly and sweet in the their letters. She couldn't understand what had brought this on.

Perhaps she had made a mistake in coming to 221B.


	3. Mr. Holmes Is A Noisy Neighbour

 

❧

It wasn't even nine in the morning yet when Julia heard the great clamour coming from downstairs. The young woman had been washing up her aunt's bathroom, seeing as she had gotten little sleep the night before. From the next room, where Martha Hudson was resting upon the couch and drinking Julia's homemade blend of tea, the rosette heard a squeak of surprise. "Oh, that'd be Sherlock!" she mused.

Julia recalled that he was somewhat of an exuberant type, but she had never thought of him to be some sort of maniac who threw what sounded like  _cutlery_ across a room and into a wall. She paused her scrubbing and removed her plastic gloves, leaping up and wiping off her hands on the old rag she had been using. As hastily as she could, Julia bolted for the door, her heart up in her throat as she wondered if he could be shooting their dinner plates again.

In the meantime, her aunt called to her in her wry voice, "Oh, everything is probably fine!"

Julia, on the other hand, could not have her own fears sated by Mrs. Hudson's adjournment. She zipped down the stairs and headed for the door of 221B, clearing the space between her and the egress, and came charging in through the open flat entrance, her hair a blizzard of scarlet. "Mr. Holmes!" she roared, mortified as she saw that he had, indeed, tossed something against the wall. It was a box of something breakable, judging by the big red letters reading ' _fragile_ ' across the side. "What on earth are you doing?!"

He turned to her, dressed in rather formal clothing, a wide-eyed look upon his face and his lips stitched together in a flat line. Sherlock tilted his head as he leaned down to pick up the container. "I am seeing how hard one has to throw light-bulbs at a wall in order for them to shatter into millions of pieces. It's an experiment," he illustrated, speaking in such a nonchalant manner. John, by this time, as already plodded his way out of his bedroom, sleepy eyed.

"What's goin' on now?" he muttered, frowning.

Sherlock turned his head, dark curls bouncing lightly. He seemed to have already showered and gotten ready for the day. "Bored," he deadpanned, picking up the box, stepping back and launching it once more. This was such a random, and not to mention, illogical event. Julia could not wrap her head around it. The box collided with the wall once more at a high velocity and Julia cringed at the sound of broken glass filling the room.

Sherlock shouted this time. "Bored!"

" _Don't just_ \--"

John spoke up again, only this time not as dreamily. "Sherlock, you are scaring our guest!"

The detective turned to him and cocked his head. "Pity," he simply replied. Open-mouthed, Watson turned himself around and sighed heavily, sauntering over to the rather rigid young woman. He took her hand and then guided her gently to the kitchen, all while she gawked at the man in the next room. As soon as her feet hit the tile, she leaned against the table, facing through the large archway and ignoring the overhanging light and how it dug into her back.

"I hope you'll excuse him," John disclosed, shaking his head. He made for the kettle and Julia had just happened to notice, immediately breaking her eyes away from the detective who was now settled within his armchair a few paces out of view. Although she was a guest within their home, she was also Mrs. Hudson's niece, and seeing as she did a lot of cleaning up around there, it was only natural that she took her place for the time being. Placing a hand on his own, she carefully guided him away. John was about the same height as herself, perhaps an inch taller, and so when he looked at her their eyes immediately met. Julia offered a smile to the older man, who mirrored the action. "You really don't have to do that."

"But I will anyway," she shrugged, laughing softly and moving to fill the kettle herself. In the meantime, John crossed his arms and rested up against the island. Not much light filtered in, aside from where it bled through the curtains. "So this is what my aunt meant by  _experiments_. I sort of expected chemicals and tweezers and scalpels to be involved."

John snorted and shook his head, giving a dry perk of his flaxen brows. "Oh, believe me, these little activities of his are completely normal for him," he replied. "It often does involve those things. He'll set up his test tubes and vials in here sometimes, right on the kitchen table!"

"A bit of an oddball, isn't he?" she murmured.

Her companion chuckled and nodded, matching her volume. "You get used to it."

"I can hear you two!" Sherlock called from the next room. He was not impressed by their gossiping. Then, "Julia, I take milk in my tea, thank you!"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." Perhaps tea would be the only thing that she would be drinking from now on. She had always been the sort to drink coffee, although she would never admit it within a tea-drinking household. That meant war. "What about his peculiar tendencies, such as the materials in the fridge? Auntie never mentioned what they were specifically and I've always been curious." Julia set the kettle on the stovetop and turned on the burner. "Drugs?"

"Oh Christ, no! Although, I do suggest you don't look too far inside the refrigerator while searching. You may find a few jars of ... well.."

The rosette narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly and pressing her hip up against the kitchenette counter. "Well?" she encouraged. "Come on, John. What could be worse?"

"Fingers," John managed finally, avoiding her eyes.

Her belly turned and she swallowed within her dry mouth.  _Fingers_? She thought.  _What could he possibly want with_ fingers _?_

"Or ligaments or entrails of other sorts. He likes to see how long they can be preserved, or how they react with... certain chemicals." He offered her a grave look as soon as he was finished his quick spiel. Julia simply stared at him, then toward their white little fridge, her lashes stagnant for a moment. How on earth was John still around? Surely he would have moved out long ago, seeing as how insane this man appeared to be? What kept him around? The cheap rent?

Julia's head bobbed softly. "I... see," she articulated, trying to ignore how her face blanched at the thought of possibly running across _body parts._ So, this was what the norm was for this man. The young woman had once thought Sherlock Holmes to be an interesting man, but with this new bit of information... the whole topic of 'interesting' now had a different definition in her books.

Peculiar. That's what he was.  _Peculiar_.

The kettle began to sing and John was the first to it, the entire conversation having fallen into a silence. The tea was made and, because of her own newfound wariness, Julia did not touch the handle of the fridge, instead simply preparing her own tea. From there, she made Watson and Mr. Holmes' drink before stirring the three and helping him place them upon the tray. John lead her out into the living room, the young woman balancing the tray upon one hand like a waitress, her own cup in her other hand. From there, she set her cup on the side-table, bringing the older man his own, earning her a gentle ' _thank-you_ '. He was such a polite gentleman, so much so that he reminded her of her own father. Well, when he wasn't tearing into her to find herself a husband or a job.

Finally, the young woman strolled on over to the detective, wary of his actions of reaching out and snatching hold of her from the previous day. Still, she tried to push past it and bent over the small table beside him, resting down the coaster and then the steaming china cup. It seemed to go over smoothly, his attention on a single point within the room, until the detective's head swivelled to the side and he stared at her. "Jasmine?" he suddenly piped up. Julia frowned and glanced over at her own mug. Sherlock's eyes pinched in a rather judgemental fashion. "Your perfume as well, no doubt."

Trying to ignore how her ears burned under his rather blunt and personal comment, the young woman silently turned without another word, kneeling and coming to sit Indian-style on the ground. John passed her her mug and she leaned back against his arm rest, eyes focusing upon Mr. Holmes' blue-grey set. The detective had picked up one of his numerous books. It was quiet. Quiet and uncomfortable. Her attention fell upon the cluttered desk and the violin settled on top. She took a sip of her tea, flinching slightly as it was still fairly hot. "So, Mr. Holmes," she addressed quietly. This seemed to draw him from his daze, eyes rising from the pages of his novel. "If I am correct, you enjoy composing your own music?"

She remembered him mentioning his hobby within their letters. Damn those sheets of paper, they always had their own way of creeping back up into her mind. Nonetheless, this seemed to intrigue him, and she found that pride blossomed within her ribcage. "It helps organise my mind. Keeps me sharp when I don't have a case. I have been playing since I was young."

"Really?" Julia mused. "So have I. Well,  _piano_ , I mean... it was the only thing I ever enjoyed that my parents had me do as a child. Perhaps we could play together some time?"

John hummed from where he sat next to her. Was it lunacy to suggest such a thing? Her eyes flitted to Sherlock, who frowned over at a tickled John Watson. "That would be an interesting sight: the Great Sherlock Holmes playing a duet with his landlady's niece! Seems below you, huh, Sherlock?"

"Perhaps it would be fun, yes." Sherlock's agreement caused her heart to leap. He thought it might be a good idea? Mr. Holmes, the man who had spoken so callously toward her the day before? Or was this simply defiance against Watson's doubtful opinion? Julia hid her smile in her mug of jasmine, the floral aroma refreshing to the senses.

The phone suddenly shrieked into the quiet room and Sherlock practically soared from his seat, pages flying, racing for it as if the caller would hang up at any moment. "What is it?" he greeted rather impolitely for someone who had just about cartwheeled over to answer. There was a beat as he listened, nose wrinkling impatiently as the man on the other end spoke to him.

"Yes, get on with it."

John shifted, the two of them exchanging another glance. The older man simply sighed and stood up, making his way over to the teapot to pour himself another one. Before he could do so, however, he was startled as Sherlock quickly finished his conversation on the phone, slamming the handheld back into the receiver.

"We have a case!" he chimed, drawn from his astringent mood similarly to a child having been promised a trip to the fair. He bounced to grab his long trench coat, tying his scarf around his neck and then tousling his hair. She had to admit, Sherlock was a good looking fellow. Nothing that woman would swoon over with his strange personality and habits, but charming nonetheless. Her eyes flitted momentarily to his ring finger, which was naked and would remain so for a long time. No wonder he wasn't married. A woman would be driven mad by his demeanour.

"Can we at least finish our drinks?"

"No time for tea, Watson, we need to get down to the Thames, pronto!" Sherlock dismissed, tossing the older man his coat. Julia rose to her feet, watching as they made for the door, feeling suddenly abandoned. The door shut behind them, although not before John turned to her and mouthed an ' _I'm sorry'_ in her direction.

All she could really manage was a soft smile before the latch clicked shut, leaving her in silence. Deflating, Julia sighed into her cup and sipped the now lukewarm substance. Quietly, the rosette strolled over to the window, eyes flitting to the grey clouds as they sprinkled a light spray of rain down to earth, nurturing the plants and trees below. Her fingers ran along the window pane as she observed the detective and Dr. Watson hailing a cab, the big black taxi pulling up to their side of the street. Julia knew that crime scenes could never be her forte, seeing as how squeamish she was toward even the thought of corpses, yet she still felt her heart grow to weigh one-thousand pounds as she watched the two prepare to climb into the taxi.

John was first, and then Sherlock, however, the detective paused and looked up over head shoulder, straight in her direction. Her grip tightened where it had fallen upon the curtain next to her, and at first she was a bit unsure as to what was running through his head. Their stare was continuous for what felt like more than a minute, the young woman drowning in his intelligent eyes. It was only broken when he leaned down to the passenger-side window, speaking harshly with the cab driver, seeing as the man was becoming impatient.

Sherlock then climbed into the vehicle and the two drove off.


	4. A Trip To The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is heartless and Mrs. Hudson gets worse.

 

****

 

"Yᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ?"

❧

The body of an eight year old boy had been pulled from the Thames early that morning, its skin sickeningly pale and bloated. It had to have been submerged for at least three days, given the visibility of its empty veins and the way the skin was almost gooey to the touch. John observed with a grave look upon his face, his lips welded shut in a thin line. They had dealt with bodies before, but a child? Especially one so frail looking. "He's missing his kidneys, his liver-- everything," Anderson explained from not far off. His irritating voice drilled into Sherlock's temples with the ferocity of a hungry hookworm. The boy was practically splayed out like a dissected frog, split open down the front, two gaping holes where his eyes had once belonged. Finally, after rising from where he had knelt upon the cold moist cobblestones, he stepped away from the body bag and allowed the paramedics to cart it away.

"Teeth were pulled, so no dental records," Sally Donovon added, exchanging a glance with Lestrade, who strolled up whilst waiting on the other end of his flip phone. She had her arms crossed along her chest. "And the fingertips--"

"Were melted straight off," finished John, meeting Sherlock's eyes and confirming their own speculations. "They left us with hardly any main source of DNA, as well as no leads."

The detective allowed his eyes to wash over the River Thames, taking in the murky aroma of its brownish-green depths. "Have you questioned the public?"

"We have yet to even bring the case out of the woodwork. This is a child, Mr. Holmes. The boy's parents need to still be contacted--  _if_ we can even trace them through testing." How clever. The killer had known enough to remove any form identification from the victim. Multiple thoughts ran through his mind: had this been a hate crime, targeting the child's parents? The killer had removed nearly all means of identification, but surely eliminated the possibility.

This child had to have been alive when he was killed. Perhaps it had been cannibalism, although he doubt it. Was it right to have left Julia alone at their flat without even asking about Mrs. Hudson if she needed anything? He visibly flinched as she intruded into his mind with that distracting head of orange hair. Right-- no, back to the case. Sure, the child had been slaughtered and gutted like wild game, but the body would have been preserved for other edible purposes. There was the possibility for molestation at hand, which would make sense when it came to the boy having faint bruises around his ankles and wrists.

"Look into every missing child's case we've had in the past few months and compare the photos--" he ordered, turning to Lestrade for a moment.

"Sherlock, shouldn't we be more concerned about searching for evidence along the bank?" John interjected.

He was getting to that. "--  _compare the photos to the body_. This boy looks to be of American decent, he has ears large enough to be mistaken for a bat. Would be able to indicate the boy's identity if you searched for it in his parents -- most likely his father -- but since you have no way of testing the body, I would suggest skin samples, perhaps even hair. Look for anything: birthmark on his left index finger and just above the eye, deformity of smallest toe on his left foot. Judging by the callouses on his hands, he most likely worked at an early age. That, or he's in apprenticeship to take over his father's business in shoe-making. Regardless, if you have to, snap off some of his ribs and use them as samples. Also, there was a bit of scuffing down along the bank over there, so perhaps look into that as well. Footprints, Italian leather, worn out arches. A man of good taste did this." Sherlock proceeded, ignoring his partner and not even giving him a shred of decency. "There may be possible samples of rubbish bags. If the killer was as smart as to burn off fingerprints and do some unneeded dental work, then he may have worn gloves, given the indents along the boy's ankles. There may be something down there of use. Call me if you find anything." Finally, after giving his instructions, Sherlock wheeled around and stalked away, his confused colleague following at his heels.

"That was a waste of my time."

John perked up, clearly irate by the detective's dismissive behaviour. "You have got to be kidding, right? Sherlock, that boy was no less than  _ten_!" he protested.

"Eight, actually," Holmes corrected quickly, brushing by someone in his way.

The veteran continued to jabber straight to his back as they weaved through the busy street. "His parents are probably worried sick, and now they'll be finding out that their son was found dead-- disembowelled, no less! They'll want to hear it from someone who is understanding of the situation, and right now, you certainly do not."

"It's not a matter of whether I understand it or not. There was nothing  _left_ of him in order to decipher what had happened. Water dissolves evidence fast, and seeing as he was at the bottom of the river for more than a day really thins out our options," Sherlock explained, attempting to justify his actions. "What I  _do_  understand is that a killer's instinct is to kill again, and we'll surely see a pattern soon enough. Besides, Lestrade can handle the formalities. He's done these things before. Always has. It's really all he's good for."

John, slack-jawed, stopped in the middle of the bustling street. A woman bumped into him whilst on the phone and cussed under her breath, and he apologised quietly, embarrassed for having run into her. Quickly, he followed after Sherlock, befuddled as usual. His partner, in the meantime, was thinking nothing of it. He was restless and he couldn't understand why.

"Do hurry yourself Watson, we have places to be!" Holmes shot over his shoulder.

"Do you  _have_ to walk so  _damn_ quickly?!" John finally managed to fall in step with his taller companion.

Sherlock's eyes washed over every face in the crowd, wondering if this had been such a good idea in the first place to barge head-first into the heart of the city. "I need to move or else my brain becomes too slow and my thoughts clog up, you should know this by now."

"What-- but that's-- oh,  _never mind_!" the veteran stormed, face becoming slightly red as he returned to the subject at hand. "I just don't understand: you're just going to  _wait_ for  _another_ child to  _die_?! You'd typically jump at a case like this."

"I thought we already established that?" Sherlock stated bluntly, glancing over at his companion. John stammered, at a loss for words toward his companion's atrocious idea. He could not, for the life of him, understand why Sherlock was so willing to let another innocent light die out at the hands of their criminal. Who knew how many he could kill before they finally found him. Surely Lestrade wouldn't allow that to happen either, right? John grumbled to himself, following after Sherlock for the rest of the way in silence, gritting his teeth but bottling his anger. Finally, they decided to hail a cab and climb inside, refusing to look at each other for the rest of the way. There was nothing more left to do here, aside from go home.

When they finally reached the apartment, the door was unlocked. They headed upstairs. Sherlock was surprised to see that the entrance to the flat had been shut. Stepping into the living room, he expected to find the usual mess, only to discover that the papers neatly rearranged, the carpet vacuumed, and his violin resting comfortably where he had usually left it. Dread filled him for a moment as he wondered if Julia were anything like her aunt, but as soon as he laid eyes upon the foreboding skull settled just as he had left it, he relaxed. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon, seeing as she had probably burnt a stick or two in the scullery.

John physically brightened as he saw how organised the kitchenette was. "Perhaps we should have her come around more often?" he admitted, giving a breathy laugh as he stood in the middle of the room, hands tucked in his pockets and his gaze wandering along his surroundings. Sherlock then noticed something odd. The laundry that was being sorted between his and John's wasn't quite finished, as if she had gotten up and left in a hurry. His heart began to speed up as his eyes flew to the paper that was now in John's hands. The detective quickly examined the surface for any sign of blood or struggle, but soon found that it had only been written quickly in one of John's black ink pens.

"Taken auntie to the hospital, don't know when I'll be back. Was having a hard time breathing. Text me if you get this, don't know when we'll be home," Watson interpreted, his face growing more and more grave. Sherlock snatched the leaflet from the veteran's hands, quickly whipping out his phone and inputting the number that Julia had left behind. They didn't even stop to discuss the situation; the two men bolted from the house, impatiently waiting until they found an available cab. It took them fifteen minutes tops to finally flag one down.

Holmes scrambled into his seat next to John, although not before tearing into the cab driver for not having enough vehicles around to assist those in a hurry. This started an argument which forced John to intervene in order to avoid violence. Slumping back in his seat, huffing in anger, the detective quickly sent a message to Julia's number.

**On our way, how is she doing?**

**\- S.H.**

There was no answer.

Sherlock's knee bounced and he read the number over and over, scrutinising it and pondering upon whether she had given him the correct digits or not. This was her handwriting-- it was unmistakable, given how she wrote so carefully, even while leaving in a hurry. The detective recognised her penmanship from her letters, which he had had a little help with, admittedly. It wasn't as if he couldn't have written them on his own; he was just so used to texting these days that writing a letter and sending it seemed far too tedious to him. How could he condense such a vast amount of thoughts into one or two pages rather than just sending a quick and easy message over one's cellular device? Ergo, instead of sitting there, fuming at his desk and getting frustrated, he had sat John down and had him write his scrambled thoughts onto paper while he spewed whatever he could think of. It was not only required in order to explain the situation with Mrs. Hudson, but to even partake in careless back and forth discussion.

By the end of their segments, he would quickly read over the piece until he was satisfied with the work, slap the envelope shut and have John do the rest. At that point, all Sherlock could do was wait for her response. He could not lie, he would some days get impatient and rifle through all the mail at their community box, in case it could have gotten put in the wrong slot, but he would never discuss that with John. Never. The man would never let it go if he ever found out.

It took them nearly twenty-five minutes to finally make it to the hospital. John shoved a fifty in the cabbie's face and the two lunged from the back seat, out onto the street, hurrying for the entrance. The doors flew open and Sherlock's nose was immediately struck with the smell of chemicals, his ears assaulted by the harsh sound of beeping. There were so many faces, so many stories: his mind became cluttered immediately yet he remained wide-eyed, searching in that sea of faces as they pushed to the front desk. "Yes, was a Martha Hudson brought here? Came with her niece," John inquired, peering behind the desk in an urgent fashion. Sherlock eyed a doctor as he sauntered by, mask over his face.

"Her niece?" the receptionist drawled in her nasally tone. "I don't believe we've had anybody come in with their niece--"

Oh, Sherlock wanted to tear her lungs out!

He whirled on the woman and jabbed a finger into the cold marble counter. " _Julia Ruth Fuller_ : she's five-seven in height, weighs approximately one-hundred and fifteen pounds, has bright red hair and was dressed in blue jeans and a pink blouse. She isn't that hard to miss!"

Both she and John seemed to be speechless for a moment until her shocked expression melted into something sour enough to pucker his cheeks. "They're in room three-twelve, on your left."

Finally! Sherlock brushed past without another word, leaving John to stammer out a 'thank-you' before scampering after him. The detective's trench coat fluttered open at the sides as he jogged down the hall, reading each room name as quickly as he could decipher it. He slowed his pace as he turned the corner, keeping his eyes on the doors to his left as he had been instructed, until he finally found the room in question. Sherlock burst inside, arctic set falling upon the woman laid up in the sheets. He crossed over to her and paused, lips parting as his typically icy heart clenched, the only woman he had ever grown fond of laying there in a restless sleep, wheezing. Sherlock knelt, ignoring as John entered and scoffed solemnly. Her hand was still warm. Tenderly, he brought it to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss against her bony paw.

Mrs. Hudson stirred from her sleep, her eyes peeling open slightly. "Sherlock," she croaked, the detective raising a hand and gently grasping her shoulder.

"Why are you in  _here_ , Mrs. Hudson?" John murmured, hovering behind Sherlock as she weakly extended a hand and stroked the side of his face. "Julia left a note saying you were having trouble breathing."

As usual, she put on a smile and laughed it off, waving her free hand. "Oh, it's just pneumonia!" she brushed off, trying to lighten the mood. "I've had far worse before."

"Clearly not," Sherlock noted, rising and rubbing a thumb over her soft hand. The veteran sat down upon the end of the bed, the sheets crinkling beneath him as he did so. "Otherwise you would not have lived. Why you did not go see a doctor until you were laid up in bed is beyond me..."

Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. When she tried to sit up, her breath caught in her throat. She coughed suddenly, the sound of phlegm deep within her throat and chest causing John and Sherlock to both cringe. "Oh, boys. You worry too much for an old lady like me. Really, I'm alright. I've had Jewels here taking care of me, and the staff here are very kind."

Sherlock sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. "The staff here are dimwits who wouldn't understand personal space if it hit them in the face. The meals are stingy and the place is crawling with other viruses that would make your health decline even further. You cannot expect us to leave you here, Mrs. Hudson!"

Despite how his back was turned, he could tell that someone was watching him and tilted his head to look over his shoulder. Julia stood within the doorway, hugging herself as she looked upon the detective and veteran surrounding her aunt. Their eyes met. Releasing the elderly woman's hand, he crossed over to Miss Fuller, having every intention on laying into her for bringing their landlady here, only for the rosette to reach out and pull him off to the side, a little ways off within the near empty room so that the two of them could talk.

"If I tore you from your work, I did not mean to," she began softly, her voice nothing more than anything above a whisper. His eyes narrowed, letting her explain herself to him. "I thought maybe you'd come home and--"

Sherlock became impatient after only a few seconds. "Yes, yes, when we got home, the note was there," he berated, being sure to express his clear frustration with the young woman. "You know first-aid, don't you? Why not just perform it right then?"

She looked up into his eyes, her own beginning to grow moist and her lips parting. "Sherlock, you weren't  _there_! She was choking and there was nothing I could do. I couldn't just watch her suffocate!" Her voice became higher in pitch, her cheeks flushing. She was angry with him. Frankly, he had not expected such an outburst from her. Her whispers turned harsh to a point where they abused his ears. Julia's eyes fell and she raised her hands. "I-I bent her over, I tried to calm her down-- I even gave her back a few strong pats, but she just couldn't catch her breath!"

"So you went in the ambulance, just the two of you, alone?" he demanded finally. "You didn't think to try and contact us? What about your phone, have you checked it? I sent you a message just before we left the flat. You never answered." Sherlock swallowed, giving her a quick once over. Her bottom lip quivered ever so softly. Julia was so  _soft_. "You've got it in your pocket, don't you?"

Beat. Her mouth worked as she tried to find the words. Finally, she wilted even further beneath his gaze. "Her lips were turning blue. They said she wasn't getting enough oxygen to her head," she mumbled, her eyes falling as she looked off to the side. "I didn't have time to check my phone. I was too busy worrying about my aunt possibly choking to death on her own lungs." A few stray tears spilled over her auburn lashes and left damp trails down her cheeks. Sherlock felt his gut turn, realizing that he had done something to offend the poor woman. She had been crying before, obviously, judging by the puffiness around her turquoise eyes.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. Excuse me." Julia brushed past him, leaving him lost, staring after her for a moment as he replayed the entire conversation within his head. The rosette quickly disappeared out the door and down the hall once more.


	5. The Case Of The Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This song is so beautiful, and I do suggest you check it out.
> 
> https://youtu.be/nJB6mNtYiMU

 

****

 

❧

Sherlock had refused to speak with her in the room for two weeks, even if John tried to get his attention. She was satisfied. She was able to clean in peace, avoid the man whenever she would stroll next door in order to tidy up for them, as well as have some time to herself to play the piano her aunt had up in her flat. The music helped her ignore the fact that she was alone most days, the dimly-lit rooms making her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because there was so much life next door that she felt so isolated, but she always reminded herself that it was better than having to deal with Mr. Holmes on the daily. She had just been returning from visiting her aunt while she was in the hospital, the medication that they had offered her helping her system fight off the nasty illness, when she stopped in the street. Julia frowned and glanced around, noticing how a few people had also taken the time to stop, listening to the sound of music drifting through the window of 221B.

"Excuse me," she murmured, finally pressing through the small group so she could get to the door, rifling for the keys within her pocket. She unlocked the wooden egress and stepped inside, shutting it behind her. Her heart fluttered and she sighed, entranced as she was introduced to a world of brilliant sound and colour. Her heart strings twinged and she slowly ascended the stairs, holding her breath. Finally, she came to the door and turned the knob, the violin's alluring hymn drawing her inside. The notes were vibrant and beautiful, and frankly, watching Sherlock stand in the window with his svelte back turned to her, she couldn't deny that it took her breath away. He was never off key, never missing a beat, always perfect; just as he was with his work.

As she listened to the detective continue to play, her hands absentmindedly ghosted across the material of her coat which laid upon the side of her thigh, playing the piano notes meant to accompany the piece. Her lips parted, becoming lost in the music and taking another step inside the room, the door shutting quietly behind herself. John did not seem to be present, most likely out with his girlfriend, Sarah.  _He is missing one bloody good show,_  she thought to herself, unable to keep the smile from leaving her face as the violin's cry rose up and up, squealing in such a heavenly manner, setting her veins on fire as the music welled within her chest and dispersed throughout her body.

Suddenly, he stopped.

"Are you just going to stare at me like that, or are you going to make yourself useful and clean?" he snapped, head turning slightly.

Julia gulped, startled by his sudden greeting, and allowed her hand to return to the strap of her purse. Clearing her throat, she turned without another word, disappointed that the air was now void of such a radiant song. Julia placed her things at the coat rack, hanging up her jacket and then adjusting the sleeves of her pale sea-foam shirt. The rosette eventually straightened out her glistening sterling necklace and then moving to find the supplies she needed. She travelled quietly down the hall and came to the washroom, where she caught a glimpse of her partially pinned hair and her pale skin. Kneeling, the young woman found her cleaning necessities, rummaging for a moment to find her duster. As soon as Julia's hand found the handle, she heard the violin's mourning return and beamed.

She proceeded to dust the shelving unit within the short little hall and then along the painting beside John's bedroom door. It was amazing how much dust could gather within two days. Julia swayed gently to the music, fingertips tapping along the wall as she once again recited the piano accompaniment. She reached the kitchen and hummed softly along, enjoying the melody as she pushed the only chair within the scullery to the fridge in order to dust the top. There, she found a mouse trap, which she raised carefully and then placed back down once finished. Once the kitchen was done, she finally entered the main den and began to clean along the fireplace, taking note of how Sarah had placed the fairy-lights in order to get into the Christmas spirit.

Sherlock had been indifferent toward the idea, although had quickly left the room with John the moment she had arrived. Julia liked Sarah. She was a sweetheart and brought the best out in the old veteran, which was saying something. Sherlock could get him to smile once in a while, but Sarah seemed to take the cake when it came to tickling Dr. Watson pink. This, however, had its downside. Some days though, it felt as if the two of them were the only company that each other had, seeing as their third person was always being stolen away by his significant other. Sherlock seemed uncomfortable with this at times, but surely he understood what it was like to be in love, right?

Julia, come to think of it, wasn't sure if he really understood human emotions at all.  _Old man_ , she thought indignantly, even despite being just a year younger than Mr. Holmes herself. As she rounded behind Sherlock's chair, she stirred the back of his jacket, coming to the writing desk to his right. The young woman quietly tucked the duster beneath her arm and began to stack the papers, when suddenly Sherlock stopped playing, turning to her. "You know this song?" he inquired, curious. So he was finally speaking to her?

Julia quietly identified the sheet music and set them in their own little pile. "You are correct, Mr. Holmes," she responded eventually, taking a deep breath and keeping her eyes on the pages. "César Franck. One of my favourite pieces."

"And you know the accompaniment." Of course he had noticed how her fingers had been tapping, even from in the next room or from behind him. Nothing got past him. "Your teacher taught you well."

"Yes," she confirmed once more. She finished moving all the papers aside and began to dust the handles of the chair. "But I taught myself. I am not everything that you believe me to be, Mr. Holmes." The detective looked out his window for a moment, watching a bird as it spiralled to the ground in search of scraps. They then fell to the strangers below, gathered in a very small group as they had listened to his performance.

Julia's eyes rose, falling upon the wall above Sherlock's couch, cluttered with images of bodies and the innocent smiling faces of multiple children. There had been at least four more murders in the last week and Sherlock still hadn't made a single move. He had been thinking... and thinking. Clearly he had some sort of theory, he just needed both motivation and the correct lead. She crossed her arms and sighed gently, looking up at the leaflets, feeling a bit more confident now that Sherlock had finally spoken to her. Aside from small little cases here and there, he had been sulking around the flat, breaking things, bringing home pieces of bodies -- which is why she now refused to touch the fridge without asking John. Julia found herself becoming more and more comfortable with Sherlock's strange lifestyle, even despite how she had been disassociating herself for so long. The young woman cocked her head, narrowing her eyes at the picture of the first empty boy: Elijah Fredrick. Avoiding the most disgusting parts, she found her attention coming to a patch of skin on the boy's sickly pale arm.

"Have you been checking for numbers?" she inquired before she could really stop the words from tumbling out from between her lips. The detective gave no answer for a moment before he silently travelled to stand beside her. Her apatite eyes fell upon his staring set. He seemed to be speechless. "You know, like in--"

"Human trafficking," Sherlock finished, striding forward and slamming a hand on the side of the wall. Julia flinched slightly, his sudden outburst lighting up the room. "I knew it, of course! Just as they did with the Jewish, the black market numbers off any being passed through their system, similarly to cattle."

"R-Really?" stammered the rather confused woman. "Why haven't you jumped on it then?"

"I was focused on hate-crimes that have been speckling across London," he dismissed, wheeling around and flying past her, beginning to toss papers here and there, even after she had just organised them. "But, there was one case in particular that caught my attention and I've been pondering over it since the night I discovered it!" He finally located what he was looking for and shovelled the papers into her arms, leaving her to read them over as he continued to ramble. "Illegal smuggling at the border. Lestrade said they caught the man in the subways with a bag full of cocaine. The only thing that stuck out to me was the man's text messages, mentioning something about a shipment coming in in a few weeks from now. Our police force does not translate very well, but they were discovered that they had mentioned one key word in particular, which had been " _czysty plon_ ". Of course Lestrade is too much of an idiot to understand that it was in a different language rather than gibberish. Honestly, it's a wonder that our police force can get anything done these days without my help."

Julia looked up from the pages of nearly illegible writing and stared at Sherlock. He had a confident smile on his face, his eyes gleaming with their usual charm and arrogance once more. "So you think that it could mean something valuable to this case?" she asked, blinking at him. She was trying her best to be John in this situation. Her mind was flying off the handle: what had she just gotten herself into? Was this how John had felt way back when he had first started working with Sherlock?

Now she really understood why he called everybody an idiot.

"Allow me to simplify, my dear girl," he shot back, turning to the pages upon the wall. "It translates to "pure crop", which all of our victims are considered to be young and innocent, as well as  _pure_ , and if what you just mentioned is true, then I am correct, as usual." Sherlock wheeled around with an exclamatory sigh, hands shooting out to the sides. "Oh, my mind has finally straightened itself out! The planets are aligning once more."

Julia stood there, eyes flitting across the board behind him, until she suddenly felt something dawn upon her. It had taken her a while, but she now understood what he was getting at. "Wait. What if the skin with these faint numbers was torn away to hide the code?" She pointed toward the patch upon Elijah's lifeless arm in the glossy texture of the photo that Sherlock had so painstakingly posted to the peeling wall. "Is it like that with all the other bodies? If it is--"

"Then they did a horrible job of hiding it,  _and_  we have ourselves another lead!" Sherlock wheeled around and suddenly charged her, scooping her up in his arms by the waist and swinging her around as she squealed in surprise. The man shouted just as he came to a stand still and allowed her back down upon her feet.

" _Brilliant_!" Breaking from her, he bounded over to the coat wrack and threw on his trench coat over his dark blue button-up, following with his scarf. He jabbed a finger at her. "You, my dear, are coming with me!"

"Wha-- but what about the-- I still have to finish--" Julia sputtered. "What about  _John_? Shouldn't  _he_ come with you? I won't know what to do around the police."

"No time, Miss Fuller, crime waits for no one!" Her coat was tossed to her, along with her scarf. Julia tossed the duster off to the side and grabbed her purse, flying out the door behind Mr. Holmes, who was eager to get to... wherever he was taking her.

❧

The cab took them to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, to which Julia was thoroughly confused. "Why are we here?" she queried, stepping out of the cab and shutting the door behind herself. Sherlock stepped to the passenger side window and handed the cabbie his pay before turning and heading straight for the front doors. Glancing over her shoulder, she waved goodbye to the kind man who had driven them there and quickly scampered off after the tall detective. Before she knew it, Julia was standing in the warmth of the heated building rather than out in the bitter cold. It wasn't even December third yet and the wind was bitter. Then again, when wasn't it chilly in the autumn in England? Tucking some of her auburn hair behind her ear, she listened as Sherlock greeted the office workers, heading for the elevator and climbing in beside the detective. He walked and spoke with such authority here, it was as if he were employed.

"We are going to be visiting our unfortunate friends," he finally answered, glancing over at her. "You'd be best to keep yourself together. They most likely do not smell the best and you have a weak stomach for these things, do you not?"

Spot on. Even when it had come to her own blood, she couldn't stand the sight. She nodded faintly, paling as she now understood the situation. Sherlock was taking her to view the bodies. Already she could feel her belly turn and complain, her grip tightening the strap of her purse. They made it to the doors of the morgue downstairs, crossing through a forensics lab and coming to the another entrance. The doors swung open, revealing a nearly empty room with a slender young woman dressed in a lab coat. She wore her mousy-brown hair back in a ponytail, her hands protected by a pair of purple rubber gloves. Her head rose and she looked upon Sherlock with a smile that practically screamed lovesick.

"Sherlock! Been out hunting the streets for crime?" she asked.

"No, I've been in my flat, trying to put together clues. Have you recently dyed your hair? Going grey? You may very well be, in fact I found a grey hair the other day in your head. Should I have plucked it out for you?" She relished his attention despite his dry reply to her jolly greeting. However, the moment her eyes fell upon Julia, the woman's expression fell.

"Who's this?" she asked, although she clearly didn't want to know. Her smile remained plastered to her face, although this time it was no longer natural.

"Julia," peeped the young woman, although before she could tell her that it was nice to meet her, Sherlock broke the tension, making this a bit more awkward with what he said.

"Oh, don't act like you care, Molly," he scoffed, sauntering over to the refrigerating storage units. Her eyes fell to Molly's. "Julia, this is Miss Molly Hooper. She is a specialist here at the morgue and a close friend of mine. Molly, this is Julia Fuller, my landlady's niece. She's helping me with a case."

The woman before her laughed in confusion, glancing over at the detective as he hovered over the body she still had laid out on the cold slab. "Does she even have  _any_ experience?"

"Not at all," he noted, earning a glance from the brunette. Julia cleared her throat and averted her eyes. She could feel how the registrar examined her, now feeling like the body she had just had been picking at.

"Girls, come," the detective called. The two approached as if they were specially trained, in a similar fashion to two primped poodles, although Julia was a bit hesitant in comparison. Her eyes ghosted over the corpse's still features, laying there as motionless as stone. Her face appeared peaceful, as if she were asleep. Perhaps, in a way, she was. At least that was a comforting thought. Julia simply stared, unable to remove her eyes from the once living, breathing being before her. She was young, too. "Molly, would you be a dear and let us have a look at the body of Elijah Fredrick?"

Sherlock's words caused her to nearly cringe, her face blanching in colour. The rosette had come to a stop a good foot from the trolley, watching as Molly wheeled it forward and hoisted the body back up into its designated sector. She then proceeded forward by shutting the heavy door and locking it. The sharp young woman parted with Sherlock, although not before exchanging a simper with the man. Yep, she was wrapped right around his finger. Perhaps he  _could_  feel something after all? Then, Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought his attention over to her pale face. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," she murmured quickly, her voice small and timid.

Sherlock smirked and her heart fluttered. "Do have some faith, Miss Fuller. You'll grow used to this kind of thing."

Used to it? How could someone grow used to working with  _bodies_?! They had once been living people, and now they were no longer able to breathe, or eat, or think, or laugh, or smile. Natural human functions and emotions, never to be performed or felt again. Julia nodded nonetheless and held her tongue. By the end of her trip here, she would certainly never fight with her parents again. She would find a man that was  _normal_  and do normal everyday things instead of go gallivanting around, trying to solve cases of brutal murder. Perhaps it was some sort of desire that Sherlock had, but for Julia, it certainly wasn't her cup of tea. No, not at all. John had served in the war, she had not. John had a medical degree, and  _Julia_ did not. Julia had been an unemployed waitress in her hometown in Glasgow, living in her parents' house since she had been evicted from her own flat.

The heavy sealed door opened after Molly had returned with Elijah's papers, the boy's carcass being pulled from where it had been stored. He was hollow, like a gutted sheep, his skin as white as snow. Julia's had flew to her mouth and she took a step back. Oblivious, Sherlock leaned forward and lifted up one of the young child's arms. Sure enough, there was a patch of raw skin missing, the ink faint yet nearly invisible. "Hmm, it appears as though you were right Julia," he confirmed, nodding his head. His attention turned upward. "What about Briar and Wrilie?"

"They display similar marks, although elsewhere on the body. Briar behind the neck, and Wrilie just beneath her collar bone. They did not show signs of those numbers, though. At least, none that we could find."

"You must be joking-- it shouldn't be hard for you registrars to analyse an inanimate object such as this. They cannot move or talk back, so why haven't you found anything? It's abnormal for a child to have a tattoo at such a young age!"

Molly frowned. "I'm sorry Sherlock... but there just wasn't much left of these children to go by."

Her legs were trembling at this point, her fingers clamping into her palms as she struggled to keep herself together. She couldn't fight the nausea beginning to rise within her stomach. Julia's gut lurched but she held down her lunch and turned on her heels, letting out a soft grunt as she did so. The detective must have noticed this, for he piped up almost immediately. "Julie?"

The little nickname went unnoticed as she sauntered over to the desk in the middle of the room and leaned against it, shutting her eyes. Her head was spinning like a top, and all at once she felt her legs give out. They collided hard with the ground as she propped herself up with in hand, her purse slumped to the side and her auburn hair dangling within her face.

" _Julia_ ," Sherlock was suddenly right at her ear, kneeling beside her and placing a large, warm hand upon her back. The man began to help her to her feet, her nausea now passing. She took a deep breath of steriliser and shook her head, refusing to look at him.

"I need some air," she grimaced, stepping away from Mr. Holmes and heading straight for the lab doors. She made it to the elevator and turned, reaching in order to press the button, when she saw Sherlock's dark brunette curls bouncing toward her. He was trying to catch up, an indescribable look upon his face. Was he genuinely concerned? The doors were just closing when he shoved them open, the system abruptly beeping in an act of protest. Before she could really tell him off, explain to him that he should get back to his work, the detective was inches away from her. Perhaps he was unaware of personal boundaries, but in the moment Julia relished how close he was to her, looking up into his arctic pools. His cologne saturated her senses and for the first time, she genuinely noticed it. It was masculine and subtle.

It was her new favourite smell. "We aren't done yet," Sherlock insisted. He was towering next to her, so close yet at a comfortable distance now that he had leaned away. "We cannot leave yet; we still have to look over the victims."

"Sherlock, I can't do this," she croaked, the elevator beginning to move to the main floor. Julia pressed to her side of the carriage, hugging herself as she tried to forget the image of the deceased. "John is better for this job, Molly was right. I have had no proper experience and I'm... I'm too squeamish."

"Don't be silly," the man chided as if it were the biggest load of tripe he had ever heard. The rosette gritted her teeth. Of course he was scolding her again. "Once you get past the wounds and the colour and the smell, you learn to enjoy their company. They cannot speak and they do not disrupt your thought process."

The soft  _bng_ signalled their arrival and the young woman strode across the office, keeping her head down, even as Sherlock jogged up just a few steps behind, accompanying her to the door. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she gave Sherlock a halfhearted smile. "I will see you when I get home--"

There was a sudden rush of air and she squeaked as she collided with a man carrying two trays of coffee. The hot liquid splashed all down her front, causing her to gasp at the temperature, stumbling as she was just caught by the man behind her. "You  _idiot_! You're carrying twelve cups of bloody coffee, do you have any concept of velocity or your surroundings?"

The gentleman before her, however, ignored Sherlock and hissed, moving to pick up the cups. Julia couldn't deny how surprised she was as Mr. Holmes helped her regain her footing from where she had once leaned into him, and not to mention by how he had torn into the younger fellow before him. It had only been an accident, despite how her skin sang in pain now from the near scalding liquid. "I am  _so_ sorry!" she apologised, helping him collect the cups now spilled across the carpet beneath their feet.

"Oh no, it's quite alright," the man dismissed, standing and caressing the side of her arm. "I should have looked where I was going."

Their eyes met and she smiled faintly. She had to admit, the man was attractive. He had flaxen hair with hazel eyes and freckles, dressed in a form-fitting turtleneck. Clearing his throat, he offered her a hand full of napkins, which she gratefully took. Sherlock, in the meantime, merely hovered behind her, shooting daggers at the buffoon who had just slammed into her. The stranger quickly wiped off a hand upon his dress pants and offered it to her. "My name is Elliot. Francis. Elliot Francis, I mean."

"Julia Fuller, thank you," she replied almost bashfully, laughing softly. "What a way to meet, don't you think?"

"Yes, well, we were just leaving, so let us be on our way. Wouldn't want to keep John waiting," Sherlock suddenly urged, taking her by the shoulders and pushed her around her newfound friend. "Say goodbye to idiot."

"Er, Elliot, actually!" called the scientist.

"Same difference!"


	6. Dinner With A Sociopath

 

****

 

  ❧    

 

Her fingers pranced across the surface of her auntie's little spinet piano, a chilly breeze wafting in from the open window, letting in the sounds of the city and the smell of later autumn. It was later in the evening, the sound of distant sirens drawing her attention as they approached down the street. The dark, foreboding sound of Saint-Saens'  _Danse Macabre_  filling the tiny flat. The piece was jaunty and yet deeply spiritual with its changes in mood and pace, growing more and more hectic as she played on, her hands moving at a fierce pace to keep up with the pages of music in front of her. Julia's tempo slowed as she neared the middle of the song, her head swaying from side to side and her verdigris eyes swelling with pride. She had worked for so long on this piece of music and was so close to perfecting it. If it weren't for how stiff and uncomfortable her wrists would become while she played, she could have perhaps finished by now.

Her phone suddenly went off, her hands quickly dancing up the piano as she brought the song to a standstill. Julia turned her head and glanced over her shoulder, her front still sore from the brutal assault of hot coffee. Sighing heavily, she rose to her feet, her nylon-covered feet sliding slightly as she crossed over to the carpet. Leaning down, the young woman retrieved the Blackberry upon the coffee table and turned the screen on. The blue light illuminated her face in the dreary little apartment. She had one missed call from an unknown number and two messages. Opening up her messages, she viewed one of them.

**On our way. How is she doing? - S.H**

Julia had not opened her phone in what had felt like forever. It had been charging for the last few days and the only time she had ever made calls was using the landline at her aunt's home. Frowning, she recalled that day when Sherlock had belittled her and scolded her, all because she had given in to her own panic in the moment. Perhaps it had been because he was just as nervous for her aunt Martha's health as she had been? Perhaps it had angered him that she had been the one to handle the situation? Her eyes fell upon the two initials he had left at the end of each message. It had been the same way he had signed those letters that she had loved so dearly.  _Now Julia, you cannot have those damn letters filling your head again!_ The young woman scoffed inwardly.  _He was merely humouring you._

She scrolled down and read the next one, tapping on the unknown number once more. It was more recent, this one.

**Since when did Mrs. Hudson get a piano? - S.H**

Could he hear her through the walls? She did not doubt it for a second. However, Julia was happy-- proud even, that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had taken notice. Tapping the reply option, she slid the screen in two and began to type out her reply on the keyboard, chewing at her bottom lip. Finally, she hit send.

**She has had it for three years now. How could you not notice?**

Shutting the keyboard back up inside of the device, Julia was just returning to the piano, when suddenly her phone chirruped once more. It just about startled the girl as she sat back down upon the quaint little bench beneath her, her shell-pink skirt flying up in a plume.

**I don't spend much time around her flat - S.H**

**Dinner? I'm ordering out. - S.H**

Julia smiled softly to herself, reading his messages, feeling her face grow warm as he suggested that she come join him for a meal. Perhaps it had been rude to leave him at his flat and not return after changing. After all, he wanted her around for the case, did he not? Oh, this was foolish! The man had just dragged her down to a bloody morgue to examine the bodies of three dead children and she still felt compelled to assist him with this little riddle of a case. Maybe she was just as insane as Mr. Holmes was.

**Is John still out?**

**Won't be back until later on tomorrow, most likely. - S.H**

That was right! John had been with Sarah all day. She wondered if he were going to be spending the night with her. This was a big step in their relationship, now wasn't it? She was proud of the older gentleman. Julia continued to chew upon her bottom lip until she had made a decision. It couldn't hurt to go visit the poor man. After all, he had nobody to really talk to this evening and his brain was practically screaming with ideas every time he merely looked at his wall full of pictures. Oh, but what if he tore into her for nearly being ill earlier? She ran her fingers over the glowing keypad. Taking a deep breath, she finally made the decision to accept his invitation. Julia could handle herself just fine, and if things got out of hand, she could always just go down to  _Speedy's_ or stroll around downtown for a while.

**I'll be right down. Don't wait up for me, I have to call Aunt Martha.**

Grabbing her aunt's keys, she quickly unpinned her hair and gave it a quick primp before running her fingers down her skirt in an attempt to straighten herself out. Tonight couldn't go as badly as it had earlier that afternoon, right? Switching to the dial pad, Julia typed in the number to the hospital and his the receive button. The phone rang a few times before a nasally woman answered on the other end. "Yes, hello. I wish to be put through to room three-twelve, please," she requested as she travelled to the spare bedroom. She kept her voice low, as if Sherlock could hear her.

The line clicked. "Hello?" Martha Hudson's voice broke the silence.

"Auntie! How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm doing wonderfully, dove. Much better since I've last seen you," her aunt replied, her voice sounding as full and sweet as ever. Julia couldn't fight the huge smile that laced her lips. "Oh, Jewels, dear. You sound excited! What are you up to?"

"Oh," she began. What was she doing? What would she say if she told her the truth? "Just visiting with a friend... we're going to have dinner. He actually just asked me, that's why I'm calling--"

"Dinner? Ooh, I sure hope he's a handsome fellow."

Her face heated up, turning a shade of pink. She let out a laugh, trying to brush off what she had said as a joke. She couldn't possibly expect her to find a man that would be even remotely interested in her. Not when she had only been in London for a couple of weeks. "No, no, it's not like that auntie. A-Actually, it's just going to be me and Sherlock. John is out visiting with Sarah and he's alone. We're actually working on a case tonight."

Mrs. Martha Hudson audibly gasped on the other end, similarly to how a school girl would when just fed a line of juicy gossip. "A case? But you can hardly stand the sight of blood, dearie!"

"Well, Sherlock understands that now, I'm sure," she explained softly, nervously tucking some hair behind her ear. She felt her phone go off against her audit, the sound of her notification tone blaring momentarily within her brain. "We actually went down to Bartholomew's, and--"

"Do I need to have a word with him when I'm back on Saturday?"

Julia laughed again, although this time it was genuine. She proceeded with shaking her head. "No auntie, it's alright. He let me go when I could no longer handle it and brought me home." She paused. "I'm actually surprised though. He actually, sort of, comforted me, in a way?"

"Well, Sherlock isn't all what he seems to be. He's a sweetheart once you get to know him, really. Just a tough nut to crack, is all!" Her aunt giggled on the other end. "I'm just glad he was there for you when you needed him. How has he been treating you?"

"John has been more hospitable, I must admit," mused Julia, fiddling with the glimmering starfish charm that dangled just upon the lip of her shirt. "But I think he may be warming up to me, as of late." Swallowing, she suddenly felt nervous as her aunt hummed on the other end. Julia hastily changed the subject, settling down upon the bed. "So, you said you're coming home Saturday!"

"Yes, I got clarification from the doctors. I'm so glad too! I've missed my boys and my favourite niece!"

"Auntie, I'm your only niece!"

"All the more reason," Mrs. Hudson added effusively, chuckling. Julia and her joined in harmony, warmth spilling from the older lady on the other end of the phone. She was so happy that her beloved aunt was feeling better. It had been a long couple of weeks. "Well, I'd best let you go. Sherlock is impatient at times."

"I've come to that conclusion over the last few days," she remarked, nodding. "Alright, well, rest well tonight auntie. I love you..."

Her aunt gushed on the other end, "I love you too dear, so so much. Thank you for everything."

"Anything for you, auntie. You've been nothing but kind to me."

"Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, auntie."

 _Click_.

Bringing the phone away from her face, she exited from the dial pad and returned to her messages, reading the text that he had sent her.

**How do you feel about sushi? - S.H**

Amazed by his thoughtfulness, she blinked down at her screen, then tilted her head, smirking.

**I'm sure I don't really have an option do I?**

Julia paused and then backed herself up, erasing the message as she was not wanting to start a possible argument. Instead, she quickly typed out a different, more harmless reply.

**Sounds delicious :)**

Promptly hitting send, she scooted along the hardwood and headed for the first landing, eyeing the coffee stains upon her coat as she sauntered out, stealing her aunt's deep plum coat and slithering into it on her way out. Perhaps they would be walking somewhere to pick up the food?The stairs creaked as she made for the exit, locking the door behind her. She couldn't help but feel that giddy skip in her step as she made it to the door of 221B. Down the stairs she went, straight to the apartment door, and the egress was already open and waiting for her. The young woman stepped inside and hung up her coat, bearing her arms. "You must be cold like that that slumping over your shoulders," Sherlock observed with his back turned to her. He turned his head around and looked upon her, eyes sliding up and down her frame. "A bit much for crime-solving, is it not?"

Julia snorted and sauntered over to him. "You actually think I would wear something nice to impress you?"

"I suspect not, but Molly would. I guess I'm just accustomed to her feminine flare... I have to wonder, are all you women like that?"

"Like what?" Julia blinked, frowning.

"Oh, never mind. You're all impossible creatures," he discharged. "Take a look." Sherlock ended up waving a hand toward the wall. Turning her head as instructed, the young woman laid eyes upon the maps now cluttering the photo montage before her, specific crime scenes circled in violet. There were a few green circles which she cocked her head at. "What you're looking at are a few sites that we have discovered the bodies, as well as a few places that would make an ideal hideout. They clearly do not have a specific dump-sight, but if we can just find where they have been performing their killings, then perhaps we can find the culprits."

It made sense, what he was saying, but all she could really do was stand there and tilt her head. Julia was lost. The scenes were scattered everywhere with no exact connection to one another. The only similarities were that most of them had been young children. Here she stood again, completely lost now. "The old warehouse that you have circled. Is it a big enough space?" she inquired, turning to the detective as he crossed his arms, reading over a sheet of paper. "If they are cutting people open like animals and selling their body parts for profit, wouldn't they need something well-hidden and spacious?"

"Yes, but the place has been dead for nearly a decade. There has been nobody spotted in or out, and no one is there any way to get in through the underground."

"Then why not check the tubes?" Julia asked, pinching her eyes over at the dismissive detective. 

"Because the police are too busy searching above ground," he snapped, turning to her. Sherlock strode over to her, proceeding to fill her in on the frustrating situation. "We have no witnesses to claim otherwise either, because all those who were involved are either vanishing like ghosts or they're sitting cold in Bart's."

Sherlock was losing sleep over this case, that was for sure. "So, they know that the police are onto them," Julia speculated. "It would drive them out of the city, but would it stop the trade itself? I highly doubt that."

"Highly unlikely," he agreed. They went back to silently studying the case, both working overtime in silence as they pushed through every little piece of evidence. They were using garbage bags to dispose of the remains, but doing so silently, when hardly anybody was around. Whoever was doing this clearly understood what they were doing... that, or they had simply been doing it for a long time until now. The doorbell buzzed. The food had arrived. Sherlock disappeared momentarily to pay the delivery boy and then soon came striding back into the room with two boxes of seafood. Julia felt her belly growl as they both sat down on the carpet in front of the table and the snapshot-cluttered wall. They dug in with their chopsticks, eating in their own comfortable silence.

"Perhaps they're just good at hiding," she suggested innocently, picking up a piece of salmon sashimi and slipping it into her mouth. The slippery texture was heaven on her tongue. She had missed eating like this. Come to think of it, this was probably the best sushi she had had in a long time. Sherlock hummed, elsewhere in his mind as he dug into his own meal. They both picked from each other's styrofoam containers just as siblings would, at one point causing a silly fencing match between their chopsticks as Sherlock insisted that she let him have her tempura.

"Don't be greedy-- share," he demanded, and although she had intended on remaining stubborn, she allowed him to take it. How could she say no? He was so damn annoying.

The door cracked open just as Julia was taking a sip of her water bottle, revealing John and Sarah hand in hand. They came to stare at the mess of papers on the floor and the wall, the flaxen-haired woman the most surprised of the two. "I didn't expect to see you here," John noted, nodding toward Julia as she swallowed her california roll.

"Neither did I," she brooded, rolling her eyes. Sherlock, in the meantime, leapt to his feet and crossed over to greet the two, pushing them inside. "But, since you two had left us both alone, I was required to babysit. You know, in case he decided to blow things up."

" _Combustion_ , Julia. Must you have little faith in me? I believe that I can take care of a flat on my own without setting it ablaze," Sherlock scoffed, earning a nod from Julia and a shrug. She was sure that he was more than capable of causing a house fire while alone.

John shook his head and laughed at their back-and-forth banter. "I'm just surprised that he has you helping him with a case. He's very particular about who he let's into his workspace."

Sherlock  _tsk_ ed, clicking his tongue. "Oh, any niece of Mrs. Hudson is welcome in on a case with me!"

"Who said I even wanted to join in on your folly?" she inquired, offering a challenging smirk. "I was just spitting ideas and then  _you_ dragged me to a morgue. You don't think that you should have asked me first?"

"Oh, you enjoyed it." The detective picked up a few papers settled upon the armrest of his chair, the light of the fire dancing in his clever blue eyes. Julia couldn't deny that she had enjoyed his enthusiasm, even after scolding her and telling her that she was not to join in on their work. She rose from where she had been sitting and brushed off her skirt, heading back to work. She carefully lifted the partially empty boxes and set them aside on the coffee table before skirting around it to stand upon the couch.

"What sort of case is this?" John's significant other asked as the veteran exited to the washroom for a moment. She eyed the gruesome snapshots beside Julia's hip. "Theft gone violent?"

"No," Sherlock and Julia replied simultaneously, both keeping their attention on their notes. There was an awkward silence before the detective rifled through the pages he held and shoved a picture of a hollowed-out skull in the woman's face. "Mutilation. First case was discovered on November seventeenth."

John returned finally, eyes falling upon his rather distressed girlfriend, who visibly flinched as Sherlock showed her another page, talking a mile a minute as he explained the essentials of the case. "So, where did you two end up going?" the detective eventually asked, more interested in what John had to say right at that moment. The veteran wiped his hands off on his slacks.

"We went shopping for a bit, Sarah and I. Went for tea after and had a spot of lunch," Watson recalled. "Later on we went on a boat ride along the Thames, then we headed back here from the park when it began to rain."

"Oh, what restaurant?" Julia asked, stepping down from her perch on Sherlock's couch. Her skirts fluttered softly, the material drifting like a ghost around her slender thighs.

"A little place called Bar Sixty-One," John suggested, peering out the window at the weather. Julia went on to pick up pieces of paper as Sherlock sat back upon the arm of his seat, eyes drifting from his work to the woman in question. He simply observed her from where she stood, holding up one of the printed codes to the light and scrutinizing it carefully. The veteran took notice of this and smiled softly. It wasn't everyday that you would see the Great Sherlock Holmes deducing someone twice, especially a woman.

"Oh, I've ridden by there in the cab whenever I go to visit Aunt Martha. I've wanted to stop in there a few times but I haven't been able to find the time lately. Was it as gorgeous as they say?" Her head tilted toward Sarah, who was too busy staring at the wall.

"Yes, the decor was beautiful. Very rustic," John answered instead, earning a smile from the rosette. Unaware of Mr. Holmes' gaze upon her, she lowered the papers and chewed at her bottom lip. There was silence as Sarah snapped from her gawking, earning an amused smirk from Sherlock as his attention finally drew away from Mrs. Hudson's niece. She said goodbye to John, telling him she would call him later that evening, and left without another word.

"Looks like we've scared her off," Sherlock noted, smile dropping as he turned to John. "How unfortunate."

"Perhaps it would help if you did not have pictures of bodies up on the wall, hm?"

"I don't see the problem."

The conversation behind her slowed as something suddenly came over the young woman. Julia read something upon the page that caused her head to tilt. They were given those numbers in order to section them off, like cattle, but what if it were more than just that? Rising, she turned and stepped over to the map, placing a finger upon the edges and eyeing up the grid digits. That's when it hit her. Julia whispered, " _oh my god_ " to herself, her heartbeat quickening. Quickly, the young woman backed up, all the way to stand inches away from the crackling hearth. Both John and Sherlock were now watching her, although the detective seemed more than curious.

"What is it?"

The phone rang, startling everybody out of their pants. Sherlock answered immediately and John stepped over to where Julia stood, a hand resting upon the small of her back. The detective's expression faded from its usual stoic expression to that of confusion. "Holmes residence. Yes, I am, you idiot. Where else would I be? You haven't given me much of anything to work off of lately-- You what? At the old church?" Silence continued as the veteran and the rosette exchanged a look of question. "Alright, we'll be there soon." Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone over onto the couch, John and he lunging for their coats. Watching the two men prepare to leave brought her right back to the morning at the very beginning, when Sherlock had been called to the Elijah Fredrick scene. Lacing her fingers together behind her back, she turned and prepared with clean up after the two of them, when suddenly Sherlock cleared his throat in the archway.

"Miss Fuller, are you not coming with?" he inquired. It took everything within her not to cry out in joy, hastening as she made for the coat wrack. She grabbed her aunt's button-up and followed behind the towering man. Julia was thrilled. Her first real case and she wasn't dreading coming face-to-face with a body. 

At least, not yet.


	7. Caught In The Crossfire

 

 

  ❧   

The cab's breaks squealed as the trio pulled up to the scene of the crime, the flashing red and blue lights stirring a newfound discomfort within her chest. Her hands fiddled with the end of her aunt's coat, her body rigid and beginning to break into a nervous sweat. She paid the cab driver herself, earning a flirtatious window from the rather scruffy man, which caused her to quickly retract her hand. Slithering out behind John, she fell into step with the man and followed closely beside. Heads were beginning to turn as the Great Sherlock Holmes strutted onto the scene, lifting up the caution tape to allow both Fuller and Watson in through. Immediately, she was approached by a tall woman. She had caramel-brown skin and hard black eyes, her face drawn in an expression of disgust. "Excuse me, but I'd like some form of identification from you before I can let you into this building," the officer confronted, extending a hand.

Julia swallowed thick in her throat, taking a step back, straight into John Watson, who gently laid a hand upon her upper arm. Sherlock had turned by now, eyes latching onto the strict officer with vague interest. "Miss Julia Fuller is with us, Sgt. Donovan," he called, earning a confused glance from the raven beauty in front of her. "Down girl." His last remark was degrading, almost as if speaking to a dog. Eventually his attention fell upon the men approaching him from inside the rickety old building. One wore a full-bodied contaminant suit while the other was dressed in casual attire, most likely being an undercover cop. John gently gave her arm a squeeze and guided her away, although not before the rosette offered her a shy smile of apology.

She had just caught up with John when she heard them mention something about there being blood further up inside the building. "We might have to take some extra precaution inside," the silver-crowned officer advised. "The structure could crumble at any moment." Julia's eyes traveled to the building itself, eyeing the massive clumps of birds' nests around the steeple, as well as the obvious holes in the roof. She could only imagine the damage inside form rain rot.

"Oh, pish, there's no reason to be nervous," Sherlock scoffed, turning to John. "You up for a little jaunt through this building?"

John hummed. "I don't see why not. I've done worse."

"Perfect." Sherlock careened his head around to look at the young woman between the two of them.

Suddenly, she was the one being stared at, rather than the old building in front of them. "Who's this?" asked the younger fellow in the white plastic suit.

"Julia Fuller," she spoke up, trying to appear confident when she clearly had no idea what she was doing. "I don't believe we've met."

"Inspector Lestrade," greeted the greying officer. "Pleased to meet you."

"Anderson," the other man responded, going in for a handshake. Her extremity extended to greet the longer-haired man back, however she was stopped as Sherlock's warm grasp snatched her own out of the air. Her breath hitched and the rosette turned to the gentleman beside her whom was squeezing her fingers.

"The man's been handling a body, do not touch him," he reprimanded, releasing her limb and brushing past Inspector Lestrade.

"Actually, I happen to be clean at the moment--"

"Regardless, you are not to speak to him. He's nothing but a distraction. You'll learn this as we go along," Sherlock murmured as she fell into step with him. A hiss of air escaped the detective, clearly irritated with the man because he was merely breathing. "Imbeciles are my bane."

Julia laughed softly, smiling down at the ground. The pavement beneath them was moist and gleaming, reflecting the colours of the emergency lights as they flickered. She had to admit, it was exciting in a strange sort of way-- to be able to simply walk through security as if they were invincible. She hardly even knew these people and yet she had power over them in some shape or form, and this was all because of Sherlock. Julia held her head a bit higher, feeling a bit of confidence accumulate within her chest. They stepped foot inside of the rickety old building, the sound of thunder rumbling off in the distance catching their attention as soon as they stepped inside. The forensic analysts all drew their attention to the trio, their heads rising one-by-one. Sherlock created a path and soon it was revealed what was left behind by the killer.

The blood was fresh and still as red as candy, the woman's mouth hanging open, crimson ribbons spilling from her gaping jaws. A gun was at her left hand, bruises apparent upon her throat. Julia felt her guts heave and closed her eyes before she could lay eyes upon the spray of encephalitic matter that was spread like chunks of pink cauliflower along the withering floorboards. "She's only been dead for a few hours," John observed, stepping into the room. "Suicide, perhaps?"

"She looks as if she were choked," Julia peeped, drawing the doctor's attention. Taking a deep breath, she looked again, eyes travelling along the corpse before her. "The bruises around her neck: they indicate a struggle. I doubt a woman of her size would be able to grab her own throat that hard."

The detective finally stood up to his full height, towering next to her. "There are no other signs of injury. She hasn't been gutted like the others..." He pointed out the direction of the spray, which Julia tried hard not to gag at the sight of. "She was shot in the head at close range while on still upon the ground. This was not a suicide." Julia broke from her comfortable place beside John and sauntered around the left side of the deceased woman. She knelt -- as gracefully as one could while dressed in a skirt -- and carefully grasped one of her arms. Rolling up the sleeve, she half expected the woman to come back to life and grab her, but she knew that it had been quite some time since she had had the capability.

Her eyes stared sightlessly toward her knees. Her skin was clear, absent of any numbers or codes. Sighing, she stood up and dusted off her nylons. "No serial number either," Julia took note, nodding toward Sherlock, who merely glanced up from the corpse. "I suppose that the autopsy will reveal any that are hidden elsewhere."

The detective caught one of the forensic team by the sleeve and jerked him forward. They began to lift the body, the sound of the woman's neck popping and then hanging limp like a chicken's reminding Julia of her nausea. Swallowing saliva, she covered her nose with the back of her hand and shook her head, turning herself around and wandering further down the rickety hall. After a while, the boards behind her creaked and she turned her head to see a rather concerned John Watson, his brows knit together. Julia forced a smile. "Perhaps I shouldn't have come after all," she disclosed, her voice quivering within her throat. She shook her head, frustrated with herself. Lightning flashed in the windows, bathing the entire property in harsh white light.

"You probably could have waited outside," John mentioned.

Her arms crossed over her body and she shook her head. "Sherlock would have dragged me in. Says I have to get  _used_ to this, apparently." The veteran's hand found her back, rubbing it in slow circles as they slowly but surely inched along, listening to how the house stirred with all the sudden movement within. Everything smelled damp and musty, like mold and dead mice. Julia wished she was back home, making a nice dinner for the three of them. Oh, the idea of food made her belly ache. She sighed and finally came to a standstill.

"John, can you come here please?" came Lestrade's voice, cutting through the silence. The two exchanged a glance and his lips flattened together.

"Sherlock is causing trouble no doubt," he remarked halfheartedly.

Julia snickered. "Why must you always assume that?"

"Because it's true." And with that, the charming doctor turned and sauntered off. The rosette sighed. If John were a bit younger and were still available, she might have considered herself being attracted to him. He'd be great on a coffee date, she was sure of it! Smiling softly to herself, she hugged her own body, shivering slightly in Mrs. Hudson's autumn jacket. Sherlock had been right in telling her to take his scarf the other day. Her own was merely silk, sheer and thin; it was admittedly more decoration than protection against the chill in the England wind. As she watched the older gentleman come to a standstill beside the dark figure of Mr. Holmes, the three discussing something to one another, Sherlock most likely make a fool out of him.

They were mentioning something about finding a man unconscious in the downstairs portion of the building, which caused for a bit of alarm. Someone was alive for once? She attempted to listen carefully to what was being said, but something else cause her attention. It was the sound of whimpering. The young woman stiffened and slowly glanced around, her maternal instincts kicking in. Turning, she wandered along the isle until she found the source of the sound: inside one of the dark rooms was a boy, hugging his knees to his chest.

Julia's breath caught within her throat. "Hello..." she whispered softly. The young child flinched, startled by her sudden arrival. "It's okay sweetie. My name is Julia Fuller, I work with Detective Holmes. Why haven't you come out yet? It's safe now."

"Don't!" The boy squeaked. He sobbed, scrambling back. He wasn't wearing anything on his upper half and his dark hair was plastered to his head. He looked as if he had just been drenched. Blood was visible upon his chest. Julia, afraid the boy would make too much noise, raised her hands. She carefully approached. "Where's my daddy? Is he still with that ugly man?"

"I-I don't know honey. I think they might have found him downstairs," she replied honestly, coming to stop in the middle of the room. Carefully, she crouched, offering a dainty hand just as she would with a shy puppy. After a moment of coaxing him, the boy crawled over on his hands and knees. "Come here. It's alright, you're okay now. I've got you." Quickly struggling from her aunt's coat, she wrapped it around the young child as soon as he curled up against her. "What's your name, love?"

"K-Kaleb Brown," he whimpered. The boy suddenly burst into tears, sobbing into her chest. His little hands gripped the material of her white off-the-shoulder blouse. He had to be about seven or so, weighing no more than a sack of mangoes. She lifted him up and allowed him to cuddle into her neck. Softly cooing, her head tilted to get a good view of the entrance. She prepared to leave when when there was sudden a high-pitched ringing. She flinched and the boy shrieked into her shoulder, frightened.

"John, stop!" Sherlock's bark was loud and terrifying, holding something desperate he was meaning to get across yet could not get out in time. Just as John staggered into the room, she heard his booming voice once again, crying out for his partners. " _No_!"

"Sherlock?" she shrilled, afraid of what she did not know. The detective came flying into view, stopping in the doorway, his face lighting up as soon as the luminous lights came on within the building. They had just triggered the system, the generators magically turning on by some sort of miracle. Panic was engraved into Sherlock's face. She never thought she would see such a calm and collected man look as if he were ready to scream. Watson's phone continued to squeal, the child in her arms clinging to her tighter than before. " _What_ is going  _on_ \--"

"The radio-waves in John's phone are colliding with some sort of motion-triggered device that is within these walls. We have all of twenty seconds to get out of here before the next three room, including this one, blow," he urgently clarified. Sherlock immediately shouted down the hall for everyone to vacate the premises.

John let out a dry, sarcastic laugh. "Of course this happens when I show up!"

The doctor quickly hurried from the room, Sherlock then turning to Julia as she made for the entrance just the same. She was just handing the boy to the detective when suddenly the floorboard beneath her foot gave way, her ankle becoming snagged and the nylon tearing audibly. Mr. Holmes quickly took hold of her arm, yanking her from where her foot was stuck and jarring her shoulder blade. The young woman cried out as splinters dug deep within her ankle and pain shot up her leg. She attempted to run, but ended up falling behind.

 "Sherlock, I--"

In a flurry of brown curls, the detective stumbled to a stop and wheeled around, the direness of the situation dawning on him as he gawked at her bleeding shin. Sherlock handed the coat-wrapped child to her once more, snaking an arm around her waist as he attempted to remove the weight from her leg. That was when Julia and Sherlock both knew that they weren't going to make it-- not with her injury and the boy to carry. Mr. Holmes' head shot up. "John, just  _go_!" His cranium then snapped around as his eyes met the surface of the nearest door, and he turned to her, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Panic. Sheer panic. He whipped off his scarf as quick as possible, asking her to cover the boy's mouth, and then latched onto her arm, pulling her toward what had once been a storage closet, way back when the church had been functional. The door flew open and suddenly she was packed inside of the tiny room like a sardine with Sherlock pressing up against her, shielding her with his own body.

Their eyes met and then they both braced themselves. Not even seconds after, the entire building rocked and the roar of the explosion was deafening, the little boy clinging to her for life, the detective shielding the two as the door flew inward against his back. Both of them cried out as dust showered down like from ash from the explosions of Pompeii. Julia found that her fingers dug into his arm, her face buried against the detective's sweating neck. The boy was sandwiched between them as they slid downward, the weight of the egress and debris falling on top of Mr. Holmes forcing them all to their knees. The building rumbled, then stilled, the sound of screaming fire engines approaching from in the distance. Julia's ears were ringing. Grit and glass and wood all created a fine, grating powder upon Julia's bare arms and within her eyes, even as she was curled into Sherlock for protection. The detective and she both coughed, choking on the smoke and cinder, her saviour shifting and trying to push back against the door. Hot tears ran down Julia's cheeks, her body trembling from the adrenaline high she had gotten after the explosion had jarred them both, pinning them to the wall behind them.

It was incredibly claustrophobic between the two. Sherlock coughed. "Are you hurt?" he finally asked, his voice rough.

"No," she sobbed in response, trying to push herself away from his shoulder in order to look at him. "A-Are you?"

"I'm fine. What about the boy?"

The child wailed as if he had just been stung by a bee. She removed the thick fleece from Kaleb Brown's nose and began to try to wipe the tears from his face. She hiccuped and swallowed, trying to get some fresh air but being unable to. "He's alright... I think."

As she shifted, Sherlock hissed in pain."I cannot move," he grunted. Julia flinched but then proceeded to try and shifted over, attempting to help him remove the massive piles of shattered wood upon his back. Unfortunately she was too weak, her limbs like jelly. Going limp, she trembled against the man, feeling him try and lift himself out on his own without any more luck than she had had. Then he spoke, "We'll get out of this, I promise."

They heard voices above the clamour of machinery, their bodies instantly relaxing. It didn't take long for them to be discovered, the door being pried off of the detective. Half of the building had crumbled inward from the bomb's blast, yet somehow their section had stayed standing, the front having been blown out giving the fire crew enough of an entrance to find them. As soon as the flashlights hit their faces, the men stared, completely bewildered by how untouched they were. They were alive, and it was all thanks to Sherlock.

A hole was created and they were pulled out: Kaleb was first, then Julia, and finally, Mr. Holmes. The man was caked in dust, just as she and the child were; they there immediately taken to the paramedics, their vital signs checked and oxygen administered. In the insanity of it all, she learned that John had been injured in the explosion, his leg hit with shrapnel. Sherlock had a cut upon the back of his neck and forehead, and his shoulders would surely bruise, but they would live. Kaleb and she were uninjured, aside from a scrape or two. The ambulance roared away, taking Sherlock to the hospital for stitches while Julia held tightly to her blanket, her body trembling.

Donovan eventually approached her and asked her what happened. She couldn't answer.


	8. You Can Do Better Than Him

 

  ❧  

"Sherlock Holmes?" Elliot astonished, his grip on his coffee cup tightening. Julia found herself smiling softly, the tender cut upon her cheek stretching slightly. It had been three days since the terrorist attack and the discovery of Kaleb and Nicolas Brown. Three whole days, and Sherlock had never stopped. He kept up on his own, apparently spotted around town, although Julia had not seen hide nor hair of the man since the little escapade at the old church. No, she had been too busy taking care of errands and such with her aunt, now that she was out of the hospital.

The gentleman in front of her blinked his charming hazel eyes in a vigorous fashion. "S-So, let me get this straight: he detected a bomb was nearby because his partner's phone went off, knew how much time you all had left to get the hell out of there, and then he pulled you into a storage closet and saved not only your life, but a child's as well?" Elliot stared at her as she slowly nodded, her apatite eyes pinching in amusement. "And the guy is up on his feet, right as rain, even after nearly being crushed?"

"Well, Greg told us that the door was what had saved his life, seeing as it had taken most of the impact. We were lucky that the roof didn't cave in on us though, or else that surely would have killed us." Julia took a sip of her coffee. The cinnamon bun they had been sharing was only partially eaten at this point. "He calculated at what velocity the blast would shoot through the building, then got us away from the weakest parts of the structure. Kind of like what you're supposed to do during a tornado, only... more complex."

Elliot slumped back into his seat with an exasperated ' _jesus_ ', leaving nothing but silence between the two of them. "I knew the man was...  _special_. I just didn't think he was bloody Clark Kent!"

Julia nodded, then sighed and glanced off toward her phone, which was beginning to light up. She recalled the dream she had had a little while ago, the day that Sherlock had been in the hospital and she hadn't been able to visit with him, where she had woken up to the sound of his violin coming from the window. She remembered how her ankle had felt completely healed as she had ran up the stairs, her hair flowing freely, the stairwell filled with golden light. The stairs had gone on for forever, seeming to have no end, and when she had finally woken, her aunt was calming her down from a panic attack. Julia felt a hand snake over onto her own and her head rose, her eyes coming to fall upon Elliot's marbled set. "Where'd you go?" he inquired softly. His voice was so buttery that it brought a rosy blush to her cheeks.

The young woman smirked. "My Mind Palace," she teased before squeezing his hand. Tapping her phone screen, she took note of the time and turned to her companion.

Julia took a deep breath and then sighed softly, looking off at Bartholomew's just across the way. "Your lunch break is almost over."

Elliot hummed and nodded in agreement, the two remaining with their hands entangled for a moment longer. She had been seeing Elliot since the incident three days ago, mostly because of how he was the only one who kept her company aside from her aunt. John and Sarah were busy together most of the time, and as for Mr. Holmes... well, he had turned into a stranger the past four days. The scientist and she were good friends, but lately it seemed as though Mr. Francis had other intentions--  _romantic_ intentions to be exact. He had retrieved her number thanks to Molly, although she wasn't entirely sure how  _she_ had gotten it. Perhaps it was because of Sherlock? After a little while of disappearing into her mind once more, enjoying the feeling of the flaxen-haired man's thumb rubbing circles along the back of her hand, the two asked for a to-go box for their cinnamon bun. Elliot paid for their drinks and she paid for the dessert, fair and square (although she had had full intentions on paying for her own cut.)

They were just out the door when she paused to adjust her boots, snowflakes fluttering around her in intricate patterns, landing upon the earth in fluffy clusters. While out on the town with her aunt, she had ducked inside of a shop with her, and while browsing, Martha Hudson had purchased her a beautiful double-breasted slim-waisted coat, pairing it along with a scarlet scarf she had knitted while in the hospital. It was the sweetest thing anyone had done for her in a long time -- well, aside from how Mr. Holmes had saved her life. She promised to pay her back through scrubbing and cleaning, refusing to let her do any handiwork around the house. Julia was eternally grateful for her aunt. Just as she brought her head up to speak to Elliot, the gentleman swept down and pressed a fleeting kiss to the side of her face, earning a shy little blink. "What was that for?" she asked bashfully, cupping her cheek with her slender fingers.

Elliot beamed down at her and offered a wink, followed by his arm. Slithering her hand up into the crook of his limb, the two strolled back to Bartholomew's, where she sent him off with a flick of his nose and a hug, although being careful because of how sore she still was. She had been left with tiny little cuts all over her arms after the incident, and now it was painful to simply lift her arms. After parting with the scientist, she turned and walked herself down along the streets of London, heading for home. She did not get far before she got a call from her aunt Martha. Pulling her phone out of her coat pocket, the young woman hit the green glowing talk button and brought the speaker to her ear.

"Hello auntie, just on my way home," she said softly. "I was out with Elliot again."

The voice was most certainly not her aunt's. "I would very much appreciate it if you would answer my calls."

  _Sherlock_. Her heart capered within her chest: Julia had not heard from him in a while. She drew the phone screen away from her face and hit the power button, revealing that her phone had been on silent. She had nearly twelve missed calls and three text messages.

"Sherl--"

"Be at the station in fifteen minutes, no less," he ordered through the phone, then hung up. The call dropped and Julia gawked, slowing down and glowering at her screen. A growl grew within her throat and she gritted her teeth, reading quickly through the messages.

**Meet me at Nando's. Lestrade wants to discuss the case - S.H**

_(12/07/11, 10:19AM)_

**Soon would be preferable. - S.H**

_(12/07/11, 10:40AM)_

**Julia, are you still asleep? - S.H**

_(12/07/11, 11:34AM)_

No, she had not been asleep. She had made plans to meet with Elliot the day before, and hadn't thought to take her phone off silent after she had gotten up that morning. Julia knew that Sherlock was demanding and arrogant, but she had never heard him this frustrated. The rosette turned, looked both ways and dashed across the street, ignoring how cars honked at her. Finally, she hailed down the nearest cab and began to call her aunt back. This time, it was she who picked up, not the irate detective. "What on  _earth_ was that? Who does he think he is?"

"Oh dear. You two are having a quarrel I see!"

"Yes, of course we are! He called me five times on his phone, and then seven on your own!" Getting inside the cab, she barked at him to drive to the police station, saying it was an emergency and to put it on Sherlock Holmes' tab. Finally, she buckled up her seat belt. "Oh! I'm going to  _skin_ that man! Did you not tell him that I went out?"

Her aunt stammered on the other end of the phone. "Well, yes dear, but he refused to listen, you see? You know how Sherlock gets..."

Glowering out the window, she tapped her fingernail against her crossed arm. Here she was, her face and hair done up for her little get-together with Elliot, completely unprepared to visit such a respectable place such as the station. Why on earth was he asking her to join him anyway? Could John not use his cane again? She huffed. "I'm sorry for yelling, auntie," she apologised eventually. "It's not you, it's just him. He's so damn frustrating..."

"It's quite alright dear. Men can be a pain in the ass sometimes..." She heard Mrs. Hudson sigh into the receiver. "Well, I should let you go. I have a treat in the oven for when you all get home."

Julia couldn't help but smile. "You know you don't have to do that, auntie..."

"Well, hopefully it will cheer everyone up after a long day out in the cold."

"I hope so," she agreed. "I love you, auntie."

"Love you too sweetheart, so so much."

The call ended and she sank back into her seat, her red scarf pressing into her chin. Rubbing her auburn lips together, she gently touched the bruise upon her cheek bone that had thankfully been hidden by a thin layer of corrector. "Say," the cabbie piped up. "Aren't you that girl from the Empty Boy case?" Her eyes found his in the rear-view mirror. His accent was a thick strain of irish. Her auburn lashes batted. Right... it had been all over the media. "You were mentioning that Sherlock Holmes fellow, weren't ya?"

Exasperated, she sighed and did her best to smile. "Yes, I am."

"Oh, good! I thought I was in some trouble, just guessin' like that out of the blue. So glad to hear ya both are doin' better." The cabbie offered a yellowed smile, his mustache lifting in order to do so. "A mighty fine girl like you needs ta' be protected."

Julia swallowed and cleared her throat, nodding. "Thank you... I appreciate it." The rest of the drive was in silence thankfully, which allowed her to think about the current situation that she was in. She suspected that Sherlock had been busy rather than trying to avoid her. What kind of man does that though?  _Only Mr. Holmes_ , she thought. Perhaps it would be best if she stuck to normal men rather than freakishly smart ones who had the tendency to throw packages of lightbulbs into walls. They finally made it to the station, pulling up right at the front.

 As she reached for her wallet to pay the cab driver, the man held up a hand. "No worries, my dear. It'll go right onto Sherlock Holmes' tab," he promised. "Just as you requested."

A sneer laced her salmon-painted lips. "Why  _thank_ you, sir!" The young woman then stepped from the vehicle and into the swirling, dancing snow. "I'll be sure to leave a good review!" Giving the cab a tap as it drove off, she waved and then turned herself around, taking a deep breath. With a gust of wind, she suddenly felt as if she were on top the world, and walked straight toward the station's doors, heading up the stairs and pushing her way through the doors. She had never been inside of the police station in London before, which is why she looked up immediately, her lips parting slightly. She glanced around until she found the reception desk.

"I'm here to see Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade," she said sweetly. The man behind the desk gave her a bland look before eyeing her up and down.

"Last floor, in the holding cells," he directed, licking his lips in a hasty fashion. He had the eyes of a disloyal man and she did  _not_ like it. "Have a nice day, ma'am."

Forcing a simper, she sashayed away, her phone in one hand. As she climbed into the elevator, she turned on her screen, and with a quick flick of her fingers, she began to write a reply to his indignant messages.

**I'll be down in a few, Mr. Holmes.**

She then shut her Blackberry and returned it to her pocket, leaning back against the grey walls. Her fingers thrummed along the brace bars, watching the numbers go down until she finally made it. Doing as instructed, she could already hear voices at the end of the halls through one of the monitors. Standing in front of the observation glass was Sherlock Holmes, as prim and proper as always, as if not a single splinter had touched him that evening. Julia silently came to stand next to him, the two observing the scene inside. Lestrade and Nicolas Brown were inside of a glass room, a single table and two chairs settled in the middle of the cement floor. There was one hanging light, dangling over top of the discussion booth. Nicolas was a bigger gentleman with greased back black hair and muscular upper arms; he bore tattoos, including one that said his son's name. He was dressed in the same clothes they had found him in: an old wife-beater and a pair of overalls.

He wasn't talking. "Julia," Sherlock muttered softly.

"Sherlock," she responded.

His head turned. "You're wearing more perfume than usual."

"Does it really matter how much perfume I wear, Mr. Holmes?" Julia shot back, her apatite eyes drifting to find his own icy set. "We have a case to work on."

They both returned to watching the scene unfold in front of them. "Is that coffee on your breath?" Sherlock piped up once more.

"Sherlock!" she laughed, swatting his arm. "Christ, yes, I went out for a bit..."

"With that Elliot fellow no less. You're wearing a different shade of lipstick that compliments your skin-tone and your hair color, which I've never seen you wear before. You're also sporting your mother's earrings so you can draw attention away from the bruise on your face, mostly because everybody has been asking you if you're the woman in the papers-- although it's fairly hard to hide a face like  _your's_. You are also trying to impress someone, which evidently, would be the man you went on a date with." Sherlock was staring intensely at the man behind the glass one moment, and the next he was looking at her with his eyes pinched in question. 

"Are you two seeing each other?"

Julia remained silent, head tilting downward as she ignored him. "You could do far better than him, honestly Julie."

Her head turned and she offered a salty smile. "Like  _you_?" she jested softly, just as Lestrade was rising and heading for the door. Julia noticed how the detective did a double-take, yet did not acknowledge his flustering in the slightest, turning and making full eye-contact with the inspector as he offered her an exhausted grin.

"Miss Fuller, so glad that you could join us," Lestrade greeted, taking her hand and giving it a shake. His grip tightened upon feeling the temperature of her fingers. "Awfully cold out there, isn't it."

"Very. It hasn't stopped snowing since this morning!" Julia agreed, making small talk. Anything to get away from Sherlock's leer. "Now, what seems to be the matter? I am dreadfully sorry for not being at Nando'swhen you two asked for me."

Lestrade shook his head, waving it off. "Oh, no matter. It was Sherlock's brilliant idea to have you speak with Nicolas. Thought that perhaps you could get through to him since you found his boy." 

The young woman frowned and tilted her head, moving her hand from Lestrade's and glancing over toward Sherlock. "He wouldn't speak to you?" Julia swivelled back around to speak to the inspector. "But he's the one who saved him, not me..."

The greying man tilted his head in speculation, shrugging. "He may react better to you, since you're... well.."

"A  _woman!_  Just spit it out, you fool," Sherlock spat. "It's only natural that the presence of fairer sex is more comforting than that of a man."

Julia hummed and eyed the two men. She looked into the interrogation room, scrutinising the man inside, and felt a slight twinge of fear. What if he became violent and they couldn't get to her in time? She had no idea what this man was like, at all. It was as if they were asking her to share a cage with a bear for at least five minutes. Julia knew criminals were unpredictable. Well, he wasn't a criminal persay, just... really mean looking. It wasn't until the inspector caressed her shoulder than she relaxed. "We're right here if you need us. He's cuffed, so there's no reason to worry." Taking a deep breath, the rosette nodded, shooting the detective beside her one last look before skirting around the silver-crowned gentleman. The inspector filled her spot and she hovered at the door for a moment before she finally turned the knob.

Nicolas' head turned upward and his eyes fell upon the young woman as she strolled inside, the latch clicking behind her. Silently, she unbuttoned her coat and removed her scarf, hanging it up over the back of the chair across from the stranger. She then sat down across from him, putting on her best mask of confidence. She could do this. Julia would show Sherlock that he was right in thinking she could get the information out the man in front of her. There was a beat as Nicolas examined her, much like one would look upon a fly on their sandwich. "Who're you?" he mumbled finally. His lip curled slightly.

"Julia. Julia Fuller," she answered softly, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Nicolas stirred, leaning back in his chair. His gaze flitted over her further. "I was the woman who ... found your son, Kaleb. He was hiding in one of the rooms down at Saint Victoria's church. I had him in my arms the entire time, even during the explosion." As she spoke, realisation seemed to dawn on his face, and once she had finished, he took a deep breath, his once placid expression softening.

"Where is he?" he asked in his harsh smoker's voice. "Where is my lil' boy?"

"He's safe with his grandparents right now," she answered, her hands unclasping from within her lap and then entwining back together. "I know you want to see him. I would want to see my son too, more than anything, but... we can only let him come see you once you tell us what you know about the recent murders."

Nicolas retracted within himself once again. "I ain't talkin'," he growled.

"Mr. Brown... please, if you will just listen to me--"

"All I've done is listen. I want to see my son and know that he's okay."

Julia took a deep breath. "Yes, we are aware of that... he is okay, I promise you. Nobody is going to hurt him, but we need to know who killed that woman in the front hall four nights ago. We need to know why your son had blood on him and why he hardly even trusted me when I showed up. We have no idea why innocent children have been dying, Mr. Brown. Please... imagine if your son had been found like all these other poor children. Imagine the pain you'd feel." The rosette noticed how the man relaxed and was growing moist in the eyes. She couldn't help but feel her own emotions rise up.

From outside, Lestrade was noticing her surge of tears, and becoming antsy. "We should get her out of there. If she cries--"

"Shhh... I want to see where she is going with this," Sherlock interrupted, hand shooting out to silence him.

"We can't have this happen anymore, Mr. Brown. Please, just tell us what you know..." Julia finished. "For your son."

Nicolas wavered and sniffled. "I didn' wanna bring him int' all this," the man whimpered. "I thought I could give 'im the slip. I've been clean f'r weeks, I promised Lucille I would be, but I just couldn't do it anymore. After she had that affair n' left with Kaleb, I jus' couldn' cope..." Julia listened carefully, reaching across the table and resting her hand upon his much larger mit. To her surprise, he took her hand completely in his own. "Have you ever had someone you love in danger, n' you'll do anythin' to keep 'em safe?" he asked, tears falling down his cheeks. "All because I needed a fix, I let Brendan Zielinski take my kid. I had no idea what he needed him for, n' when he mentioned somethin' about the Poles, I retracted the offer... but they already had Lucille, they already had him. They was gonna cut him open, sell his parts--"

Sherlock let out a ' _yes_ ' and balled his fist in triumph. Lestrade was speechless.

"--I couldn't let it happen." The rosette shot a glance toward the tinted window, knowing fully well that the detective would be pleased.

Rising, the young woman rounded the side of the table and came to sit on the lip of the table. "Thank you Nicolas," she whispered, refusing to release his hand. "That's all we needed to know. I promise, you'll get to see your son soon. I'll make sure of it... just rest easy, now."

"Thank you, love," he whispered, bowing his head. Julia held still for a moment longer before she slipped away from him. Grabbing her coat, the rosette made for the door, her hand having just touched the chilly metal of the handle when the man suddenly piped up again. "You know..." Her head turned, awaiting the end of his sentence. "You remind me of my wife. She was a beautiful, kind woman. Don't let the world change you."

She offered a half smile. "I won't. Good afternoon Nicolas." With that, the young woman shut the door behind her and stepped out into the hall once more, the smell of the carpet filling her nose. Julia rounded the corner and Lestrade shook her hand, the detective behind him dipping his head in approval. The next thing she knew, the trio was heading back to the elevator and then crossing through the offices. Sherlock fell into step with her as Lestrade broke off to speak with one of his men.

"So what's the backstory on this man?" she asked softly.

Sherlock answered her almost immediately. "Mr. Brown worked in a salt-processing factory for most of his life which was just recently turned into the new fishery run by a family who integrated from Poland," he informed her, his voice low as he matched her volume.

"Of course," she mused.  _Let me guess, running from the law?_ The man retrieved his coat from where he had left it slung upon one of the chairs in Lestrade's office. 

"Not only that, but this Brendan Zielinski is well-known around here for being suspected in possible drug heists, although he's always managed to plead innocent in court every single time. He's been to jail only once but was given parole four months early."

Her head turned to him and her eyes peeled open wide. "So... that's our case. We just need a search warrant, and we can--"

"A search warrant was already granted: the team came up empty, finding nothing but fish DNA rather than human." Sherlock's tone was harsh, most likely frustrated by the simple dismissal of the Polish fishery bunch. "Which is why, tonight, you'll be coming with John and I to do our own little investigation."

"Wouldn't that be rather illegal, Mr. Holmes?" Julia mumbled.

Sherlock's head cocked as they made for the front offices. "Only if we are caught, and even then we can easily get out of any sticky situation. Need I remind you that I'm Lestrade's go-to. This place would crumble without me around to assist." The suave detective casually snatched a few documents on their main targets and slid them into the pocket of her coat. They then headed for the grand doors, sauntering out into the lobby once more and then out the front egress into the snow. Flakes of alabaster were immediately caught within his stark hair and eyelashes, and she could just make out the blossom of pink where his stitches were at the base of his skull. He did not stop his jaunty pace, leaving Julia to catch up on her own as he pulled on his coat and scarf in a dramatic flourish. Typical Sherlock. "Now, tell me about your morning with idiot."

"It's  _Elliot_ ," she corrected, glancing between him and the street in front of them. "And we only went for coffee together, and that's that."

"Well, judging by the slight smudging of the powder upon your left cheek, pecking seems awfully friendly for a simple meetup for coffee," Sherlock noted rather snidly.

"Oh my god, you  _must_ be joking. You've deduced me  _twice_ today!" she protested. "Wouldn't you say that that's a bit of an intrusion of personal privacy?"

"I was not intruding. I simply observed, Miss Fuller."

The chalky powder that drifted down around them seemed to reflect against her skin, causing her blushing cheeks to appear to have been slapped until scarlet. Her ears and the tip of her nose were just as rosy. She huffed, her breath seeping out in a puff of frosty silver. "We had coffee and we talked. Yes, he kissed me as we were leaving," Julia scolded, glaring straight ahead. "However, that is hardly any of your business."

The detective suddenly stopped, turning to her and blocking her path. "That's where you are wrong: I need you to be one-hundred and ten percent committed to this case, and this snot-nosed, snivelling, pea-brained idiot with his stupid little games is going to distract you if you two continue on," he suddenly snapped, leaning down into her face. His cologne assaulted her once more with how close he was to her, and she was abruptly brought back to when she had first really noticed it on him. "With John injured, I'm relying on  _you_  to be here in his place, and it is  _very_ hard to find people I do, indeed, need. Are we clear?"

People stared as they were passing by.

Julia's lips parted and she struggled to find the words, eventually swallowing hard and then clenched her jaw. He was so full of himself. She couldn't stand it. Her anger was very prominent for a moment until she softened and stepped up closer to him, as if challenging him. The rosette knew would show him-- two could play at this game. " _Crystal_ ," she uttered ever so sweetly, an extra layer of sugary coating working jointly with a sudden bold streak that had only just surfaced. Sherlock, for once, looked her over with a spot of surprise, his eyes dancing to her lips just moments before she stepped around him, walking ahead.

"Come along, Mr. Holmes, we have a case to solve!  _Crime waits for no one_!"


	9. Idiot Discovery and the Great Discovery

 

  ❧   

Julia was as motionless as a statue, the young woman standing on the opposite side of the room as the posters, arms crossed, one finger trailing along her lips. She held herself deathly still, her movement little to none as her eyes washed over the images upon the wall. Sherlock Holmes sat within his chair not too far from her, one leg crossed over the other, his face leaning into his curled digits. The room was so silent that you could hear a pin drop. Her dilute marine depths studied the maps and brightly coloured string she had arranged, her chest rising and falling ever so slowly. The detective deduced her wordlessly, drilling into the side of her face, his eyes begging him not to reexamine the faint disturbance upon her left cheek, yet his mind refusing to abide. "It just doesn't make sense," she whispered to herself.

He did not answer. Sherlock kept replaying the afternoon at Bart's, when he witnessed two simple-minded beings collide with one another, and immediately react with apologies and smiles. Holmes had torn into the strawberry blonde idiot: the man was clearly below his intellect (and unobservant to boot), yet Julia had been undeterred to forgive him, even after she had just been scalded with hot coffee. She was so  _soft_. The detective shifted in his seat, eyes drifting up to her face. That blasted spot upon her cheek! He could just picture it: Idiot stealing a quick one, leaving her simpering and blushing like the bashful little dimwit she was. It was painfully obvious that Julia had taken a liking to the younger fellow from the moment the two had met. Their date had been only days after it was time to start cracking down hard on the evidence of the case, and Julia had known that, so why hadn't she returned his calls? There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that she felt as though she needed to keep her growing relationship with Elliot a secret from him.

Sherlock knew, without a doubt, that the rosette had been puddy in his own hands the day they had been first introduced, thus giving away that she was quick to become smitten, much like a young teenager in high school... yet now, whenever she looked at him, there was something missing in her eyes. Julia hadn't looked at him with that same, usual warmth for quite some time now. It bothered Sherlock, mostly because she now gazed at Idiot Francis with that same wonder and adoration she had once held for him and  _only_ him. The woman fell hard and quick, but she wasn't the type to just move on from person to person... and yet he found his mind backtracking on several occasions. Was he boring to her now? He would have to consult with John later on. The doctor was the closest thing he had to a "normal human conscience."

Damnit, she was inside of his head! Sherlock tuned in to what she was saying just then. The young woman had all but disappeared from the room. "Julie?" he called, straightening up and looking from place to place.

"Yes Sherlock?" she called from down within the kitchen, yet he still could not spot her. Christ alive, where on earth had that woman gone? 

"Come here," he instructed, much as one would with a dog. Not even a second later, she returned from the scullery with a mug of tea and a mug of coffee. He frowned.

"Black, two sugars, just how you like it," she recited, causing the detective's words to die within his throat. He nodded and took the steaming mug from her. The aroma of jasmine mingled in with the rich smell of dark roast. Returning to the board, he followed her gaze and the two sat in silence once more, their minds working like cogs and gears within a grandfather clock. He was content with this, right here. The two of them sitting together, working on a case in peace, without anybody else around to disrupt them. Sherlock wanted her to be at his full disposal, at all times, no matter where she was, and if Francis was going to get in the way, he might just have to make sure he had an " _accident_." Julia would never forgive him, however, so that was completely out of the question. A sigh escaped him and her head turned.

"Are you still frustrated with me?"

"Clever girl," Sherlock intoned, lips pursing as he continued to stare straight ahead.

"Sherlock, I'm going to have to start living a life outside of 221B at some point." A switch went off behind his eyes and he straightened up, his gaze growing wider and wider as he stared at the colour-coded map."I won't always be around when you need me... besides, John is always here. He lives with you. You two always used to work together before I showed up!" She set her mug down on the carpet and crossed her legs together, giving him a sincere look. 

"Yes, but that was before he was injured in Saint Victoria's," he mumbled, leaning his head slightly in her direction. His thoughts trailed off as he examined the map with great detail. The light that had been turned on within his brain suddenly grew more luminous, filling his entire skull with its vibrant glow. The detective shot up out of his chair and handed her his mug, the girl tilting her head in surprise as he darted across the room within seconds. He picked up a marker and raised it, hovering for a moment.

 "I know that we should be focusing on the case, but--"

" _Shhh_!" he hushed her.

"Excuse me?"

The doors to the flat opened, revealing Mrs Hudson and stepped into the room, parading her promised surprise around, ovenmitts still handy. "The pie is ready!" she sang.

"Frankly, it smells delicious. Haven't had this since last Christmas, huh Sherlock!" John followed in behind her with his cane, limping slightly due to the pain in his injured leg. Just as he noticed how stiff Sherlock was, his back turned to Julia, he grew more serious, frowning. "Is something the matter?"

Sherlock's head felt as if it were going to explode, his thoughts grating inside his head until they were white-hot and dancing like the devil. Their voices were roaring within his cranium, bouncing around like fallen cutlery. The tension quickly grew and then snapped all at once, his ire spilling from his lips in a spray of venom-coated syllables. 

" _QUIET_! I need quiet! Everybody needs to  _shut their mouths_  or so help me I will coat you all in petrol and  _burn_ this place to the ground!" The duo came to a stop in the middle of the flat, the sudden smell of apples and cinnamon intruding in on his thoughts, bringing back memories of home, which he immediately shut out, clamping his lungs shut as he escaped within himself. He whirled around to face the rather befuddled rosette whom was still settled upon the floor, jabbing a finger in her direction. "Say it-- say it again, about-- about the --  _the_ \--"

"I _apologise_?" she peeped.

" _NO_!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "About having a life outside of this flat!"

The girl paled and flinched slightly. "I said that I'll h-have to have a life outside of 221B at some point--"

"YES, THAT! That's it, that's  _it_!" Sherlock raved, spinning around and scraping the marker over the parchment map in front of him, creating a wide circle between the fix push-pins that marked each recovery location. He then rifled through a nearby tin and retrieved a vibrant purple tack, pushing the pin into the soft surface of the wall. Next, he unhooked all the strings and fastened them to the middle point. All arranged itself in a perfect wheel-like formation, leading to a location just on the edge of the River Thames, which was smack-dab in the middle. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear, pitching the marker to the side in a careless and violent fashion. " _This_ , ladies and gentlemen, is where we will find our scapegoat!" Sherlock announced, arms splaying out wide.

Julia scrambled to her feet, crossing over to stand beside the detective, pulling his arms back down to his side so she could see. He stiffened, his shoulders complaining in agony at such sudden movement. Perhaps his dramatic performance had gotten a bit out of hand for a man who had been pummelled by debris. She did not even apologise, too bewildered to even say anything at all. "So..."

"We've cracked it, my dear!" Sherlock gushed, their eyes meeting. " _You_ just helped prove my theory to be correct with that puny little brain of your's."

"What would the police do without you?" John mused sarcastically, rolling his eyes at the detective's brazen remarks. 

"Go out of business!" Julia answered, her pearly whites flashing in the golden lamp light.

Mrs Hudson hooped, setting the pie down on the table and scurrying over to her niece's side. The little quartet exchanged affections in close quarters, all packing in together in collective triumph. Mrs. Hudson and her niece embraced while John and Sherlock shook hands. "Oh, I'm so proud of you! My Jewels, solving a case with  _Sherlock Holmes_."

John quickly traded places with the elderly landlady, although Julia met him half-way so he did not have to struggle over to her. The rosette offered Watson a kiss upon the cheek, his ears turning a soft shade of cerise. Before Sherlock knew it, it was his turn. Julia's arms snaked up around his neck and he instinctively lifted her up, earning the usual squeal from the girl as he gracefully swung himself away from Watson and Mrs. Hudson. She was just as light as he had remember her to be, her small body pressing to his lean physique. His face ached from how long he had been smiling. She was warm. The detective set her down and her lips brushed his cheek, which to his own surprise he recurred. With each hand finding its designated spot upon her face, his kiss landed upon her forehead, the man having to crouch down slightly in order to do so. "We still have work to do," he breathed as he pulled away, feeling her warm breath upon his face as she smiled at him.

As he pulled away, he couldn't fight the zing that travelled up his spine and into the back of his head. It was pride. He had gotten her to look at him in that way again, if only for just a moment. "It isn't over yet; not until the fat lady sings!" Sherlock twisted his wrist and read the time upon his dazzling, expensive watch. "We leave in six hours!"


	10. The Art Of Drowning

 

  ❧   

Quarter past one in the morning. 

Julia Fuller rubbed her sleepy eyes and pulled on her darkest clothing, zipping up her sweater and wrapping her scarf around shoulders and neck with its lengthy amount of material. She then pulled on the sleeves of her coat, not even bothering to pull her auburn locks out from beneath the heavy wool. She slipped on her good flats, indifferent to whether the cold would nip at her bare skin or not, and then sauntered over to the window, peering out at the street below. Sherlock and John stood below in the glistening snowy streets, chatting as they waited for her to arrive downstairs. The rosette ran her fingers along the curtains and simply admired the two from above, smiling softly as an oddly giddy feeling washed over. Her life had been so dull before she had met Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Where had they been this entire time? Living with her aunt in London, somewhere she had never dreamed she would end up.

She observed as Sherlock glanced down the street, dark hair a wispy storm of coffee as it fluttered in the wind. It was not snowing thankfully, but part of her wished to those fat, fluffy flakes of chalky alabaster catching in his hair again. For a moment the rosette looked away, retrieving her cellphone and opening up their conversation together. She hovered, taking a deep breath, feeling suddenly bold. Julia began to type something she had never thought she would say to Sherlock himself.

**You look handsome tonight.**

Her fingers hovered over the send button, glancing down at him once more before going out on a limb. Julia felt a pang of sudden anxiety wash over her, yet she couldn't shake the pleasant trembling within her belly as she fought her butterflies from escaping through her throat in tiny giggles. Sherlock glanced at his pocket, taking out his phone and opening it up, most likely reading the message. He seemed perplexed at first, until the faintest smile ghosted over his face. His head had just turned up to look upon the window pane when she disappeared from view, taking a deep breath and bringing her hand to her mouth to stifle her own girlish laughter. Biting her bottom lip, she pondered for a moment, before she escaped to the washroom and retrieved her makeup kit. Her lips were soon painted dark red against her pale skin, her eyes popping against the color.

Stepping silently, so as not to awaken her auntie Martha, she crept from the linoleum floor onto the hardwood and made for the heavy malachite-painted door of 221C, confidence in each step. Julia fixed her hair, pinning it up and then grabbing the handle of the door.  _Oh my god_ , she thought. _I just complimented Sherlock Holmes... and he smiled!_ The lock clicked and she stepped out into the streets, closing the door behind herself and coming to meet up with John.

"You ready?" asked Julia, unable to even look at Sherlock for fear she would melt.

"As ready as I'll ever be!" the injured doctor brooded, nodding with a charming smile.

"Yes, well, now that formalities are out of the way," Sherlock piped up. "Let us get going." The tall man strode past them, heading in the direction of the downtown area, his trench coat fluttering from where it was not buttoned together. The trio traveled down the abnormally busy streets of London, glancing into shops here and there as they passed their magnificently-lit displays. December had only just begun and Christmas seemed to have already come to the busy city. Heavenly white light burned everywhere they looked, father Christmas and Elves making the occasional appearance here and there.

"Perhaps we should have taken a cab, Sherlock?" John puffed as he tried to keep up on his injured leg. Julia had slowed herself down so as to help the doctor if he needed, the two making small-talk as the inspector lead them forward. Somehow he knew where he was going, which gave them confidence... somewhat.

"No need for that," he tutted, glancing over his shoulder. "If we take a cab, we'll surely be spotted. They're too bright and too obvious."

John let out a dry, breathy laugh, slowing to a stop so he could catch his breath. The detective continued on, yet Julia stopped along side of Watson, a hand upon his back. She glanced off toward Mr. Holmes, who eventually noticed that they were no longer following in tow and had turned around, returning to his accomplices with a look of disapproval. 

"Taking your medication makes you easily winded, I see. Perhaps you should lay off the pie for a little while; you've been putting on weight," Sherlock pointed out passively.

Julia snorted softly and shook her head, rubbing John's arm and glancing off to the shop they had stopped in front of. A mannequin stood in the very front, adorning a long, deep forest-emerald dress, the skirts flowing and elegant. The material had a slight luster to it, the neckline dipping low upon the chest and wrapping around at the waist, held together by a charming little sash with a small bow tied at the left side. A slit ran up the middle, leaving ogling room for a slender plaster leg. Dangling around the mannequin's neck was a dazzling collar of white diamonds.

"You like this style, this color," Sherlock's sudden statement caused her head to turn. He was staring directly at her, arctic eyes burning holes into her face. The rosette's lips parted and she offered a soft whistle of sound from her throat, speechless.

"Y-Yes," Julia stammered softly. She shyly glanced over at the dress, her fingers coming to the cold surface of the glass. "It's probably far too expensive, though."

Sherlock's arms stretched behind his back and he nodded, turning. The sound of bells filled the gaps between the faint and occasional chatter of the evening, the wreaths that encased the street lamps being disturbed in the brisk breeze. "Come along. We don't have all night."

Julia hovered by the window as John, having found his strength once more, plodded forward after Sherlock, falling into step with the tall detective. As they strolled away, Miss Fuller took in the moment, admiring their difference in height and stature. They suited one another. Eventually she abandoned the dress in the window, although she knew a piece of her would remain with its flowing forest silk. They proceeded on until they suddenly found themselves deep within the glamorous town square, passing by people who surely recognized them from the papers and the media. It wasn't until they were stopped by a local photographer that Sherlock actually became distracted. The publicity would surely go to his head. "Can I get a picture of you three together?" asked the young Scotsman, a cigar clenched between his teeth.

"Of course," Mr. Holmes complied, bracing for his snapshot beside John. Julia tucked some hair behind her ear, trying her best to stand up straight and smile for the camera. The Canon's flash burst and, just as they figured it was over, he piped up again.

"Eh, actually, would you two mind if the pretty lass stands in the middle? Jus' because of height difference and such. It makes for a better picture." Silently, Sherlock and she traded spots, one of the detective's hands coming to rest upon the small of her back as they adjusted and re-positioned themselves. "Oh, that's good! If I could get you two fine gentlemen to tilt slightly in toward her..." She felt Sherlock's paw shift along her back, the detective's free hand tucking up behind his back in a rather sharp, educated manner. " _Beautiful_!"

"Lovely,  _now_ , if you will excuse us," Sherlock dismissed, the feeling of his hand disappearing leaving the rosette feeling a bit exposed. The photographer gushed and shook John's hand, taking his leave, although not without shooting the rosette a wink on his way out.

"Where do you suppose  _that_ will end up?" Julia inquired softly as they watched the stranger leave.

"I haven't the slightest idea-- mostly because I do not care," Sherlock answered, the trio crossing the street, a pigeon fluttering as it scampered out of their path.

"It's almost as if you enjoy having your picture taken, Sherlock," John remarked, shooting the man a clever tease of his eyes.

"Enough, John."

"He's just telling the truth, Sherly..."

"Don't you dare ever call me by that name again," hissed the detective, shooting her a biting glare. "Do you hear me, Miss Fuller?"

Julia pressed her lips together, holding in a boisterous bout of laughter. Dr. Watson, on the other hand, brayed ecstatically, his glittering teeth flashing in the winter night's light.

❧

An hour turned into two, and by time they had reached their destination, Julia was becoming quite exhausted. Her feet were tired from trekking across London, her body shivering as the temperature plummeted further. The streets had all but died now, leaving them to their own private thoughts. Julia's fingers rolled over her phone screen, her mind tumbling like a stone on the shore. Perhaps it hadn't been appropriate to send that message to Sherlock.

They were simply business partners, after all. Once this case was finished, she would have to start busting her tail to earn her keep back home, although she was sure that her overly forgiving aunt would be thrilled to even have her in the same room as her crazy little family at 221B. She treated all three of them like she would her children. A train blew resounded off in the distance. They rounded the corner of the River Thames, studying the water carefully and keeping an eye out for any stragglers who happened to glance their way and notice they were snooping around. The trio finally found themselves approaching a small little dock, a small tugboat nestled within the partially frozen water from beneath the protection of a garage-like building. They carefully walked along the neighbouring dock and then hopped down inside the little parking space, Sherlock and John both turning on their flashlights.

The factory inside wreaked of fish, and immediately Julia knew that she would have to shower once she had gotten home, as well as toss her laundry in the wash at least three times the following morning. The factory inside was huge, or at least this part was, the structure filled with dangling hooks used to escort large deliveries and nets across to the processing room. The beams were high, the soft fluttering of wings giving away that the place was infested with pigeons. The working conditions must have been cold during the winter and awfully hot during the summer, seeing as they most likely had no sort of heating or cooling. Sherlock silently offered her his torch, allowing her to explore more of the building on her own.

"Don't go too far!" warned John in a harsh whisper, although she knew that the place had to be empty. It was nearly three in the morning and the owners wouldn't be arriving for another two hours. She found herself climbing through huge tubs of ice, piles of fish still resting inside. Whoever these people sold their products to, she did not want to buy from. Hopefully she didn't get lost. The young woman pushed through the sheets of heavy plastic, peering around, only to come face-to-face with one giant milky eye and a gaping mouth. Julia gasped and stumbled back into a solid hanging body, given a horrible start at the sight of the partially intact tunas hanging by their jaws.

She attempted to calm her hammering heart, pushing through the columns of smelly bodies in order to make it to a small, dimly-lit staircase, leading her up to a catwalk high above the factory floor. Julia balanced herself along, arms spread out wide like a tightrope performer.  _And now for her next trick, the Magnificent Redhead will juggle six frozen herring while_  --

The distinct click of a cocking gun drew her away from her childish imagination.

 "If it isn't the infamous Sherlock Holmes," purred a deep voice with a thick, foreign accent. Julia stiffened and slowly stepped along the metal grates, being careful where she placed her feet. Her body lowered with each step, hoping to go unnoticed by the silhouette standing before Sherlock, who was bathed in the florescent light of an overhead lamp. The detective slowly turned, shoulders rigid, coming face-to-face with one of their prime suspects. From what she could see, the man was just about as tall as Mr. Holmes himself, dressed in a thick parka, his head buzzed almost bald. An inky tattoo visibly coiled up from the collar of his coat along the back of his neck.

"Your bomb wasn't enough," John stated, only for the enemy to remove the safety from his glock and point it directly at the older gentleman's head, aiming squarely at the skin between his eyes. The veteran grew deathly still. The split second happened in rapid-fire movements, and as soon as the polish gentleman had taken aim, the detective had drawn his own weapon. She had been completely oblivious to the pistol hidden inside of his fleece trench coat.

"I'm sure your boss wasn't thrilled when he found that we had lived," Sherlock challenged. "I hope he understands how cliche of an idea setting up a motion-detected pipe-bomb was. They never work the way you want them to."

The cold metal of the enemy's gun pressed to John's skull, causing the former soldier to shut his eyes and swallow thick within his throat. "Yes, what a pity. I guess my man Reagan won't be happy to find brains splattered along the pavement of his loading dock either--" The enemy forced John back half a step.

"You so much as  _move_ and I will shove this gun down your throat," hissed the detective. " _Do not_  touch  _my associate_!" 

The man laughed deep within his throat, clearly amused by the sudden emotion behind Sherlock's bellowing voice. The air was so thick that it became palpable as soon as Sherlock was next to remove the safety from his own weapon. The criminal grinned from ear to ear one moment, and the next his smile had been wiped away, replaced by a wide-eyed, menacing look.

"You think that this is a joke but it's far more than your tiny intellect can comprehend, Zielinski. You are merely a chess-piece on this well-calculated board."

Sherlock's confidence died within his throat as suddenly the man snatched John by the crook of his arm, dragging him back a few steps and shoving the gun up underneath his jaw.

"You resign... or he dies. It's  _simple_ ," Brendan seethed. "It's either you, or your boyfriend. You're too far in, gumshoe.  _Give up_!"

Julia's heart cried out. One moment she was standing upon the catwalk, her anger burning with the ferocity of a thousand suns, and the next she was teetering as she attempted to reach for the nearest hook. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that Sherlock had shielded her with his own body in order to protect her from a lethal explosion-- one that had blown half of the building to smithereens. If he could risk his life, so could she. 

The rosette leapt without looking. Her hands met the cold metal and she swung forward, the criminal below flinching as he was suddenly kicked in the head by her flying shoe. His gun fired and John fell to the ground, gripping his now bleeding ear. Sherlock was the next to move as he lunged, his free hand struggling to snatch the weapon from Brendan's claws. Once again, the weapon fired and there was a cuss, but Julia had missed what was happening below as she soared toward the deck of the boat, landing with a stumble and a grunt, falling upon her hands and knees. The cables attached to the pulley system let out a sharp crack as they collided with the break above her head, startling a few pigeons out of their roosts, sending them panicking for any sort of means of escape. Her head snapped up just as Sherlock was struck across the face, the detective falling to the ground upon impact. "Sherlock!"

" _You_!" the menacing man snarled, aiming his gun toward her. Her legs went numb and she scrambled, ducking as a bullet split through the air, just narrowly missing her.

" _Julie_!" Sherlock shouted. Another shot was fired, although this time the doctor managed to push the man's arm up into the air, the lead capsule screaming as it bounced off the side of the buoyant tug. She jumped blindly, landing and tumbling painfully across the cobblestone floors, trying to get as far away as quickly as possible. She could feel fresh blood oozing from where she had scuffed the heels of her hand. The gun had been wrestled away from the man, although now it was Dr. Watson upon the ground, Brendan's talons latched around the smaller man's neck. The lull was filled by John's  gasps before the detective, finally able to regain his bearings, abruptly hauled the polish man off of his partner. Everything was a blur. John was choking for air and Julia was clambering backward like a goddamn crab, adrenaline soon coming to paralyse her the moment she laid eyes upon the heated battle before her.

Just as Mr. Holmes threw his next blow, the murderer swung and sucker-punched him square in the gut with a horrible thud. The detective grunted loudly, doubling over in agony. Zielinski's mirth rose in volume, his triumph booming as it bounced off the walls.

 Sirens were beginning to approach in the distance; just as he attempted to grab the detective's dark locks and perform another punch, Sherlock quickly knelt, retrieving the nearest object and whipping his arms upwards so quickly that it nearly jarred Julia's neck whilst she followed along. Holmes smashed the barrel of his gun across the side of the criminal's head with a sickening smack. The final moments of the struggle moved in slow motion.

"Oh my god--" Julia gasped.

" _Sherlock_!!" John screamed.

The momentum sent Brendan staggering over the detective's foot, the man successfully managing to latch tightly onto Sherlock's billowing trench coat whilst he floundered. The two careened back, a momentary bout following of gripping silence, and then they finally hit the water behind them with a massive, concussive clap. Their bodies disappeared beneath the icy waters of the River Thames and suddenly Julia couldn't breathe.

Still a bit disoriented, Watson stumbled to his feet and without a second thought, joined them beneath the surface. Then, as if contracting her own fair of madness, Julia bolted upright, ripping her scarf and coat off. She took a breath so deep that she could feel it within her toned belly, and dove below the surface.

Her entire body turned rigid and it took everything within her not to gasp as she fumbled beneath the murky hyperborean depths. However, her body soon became aware of her inability to hold her breath much longer, and she quickly ascended to the top. John was treading water, his teeth chattering violently.

 "D-Did you find him?!" Julia stammered, her entire body convulsing from the temperature.

The doctor swam to the side, hoisting himself up on the dock and retrieving one of the torches, the light screaming in her eyes. She was beginning to lose feeling in her legs. Julia grabbed the light as soon as he handed it to her, and they looked at one another with fearful eyes one last time before they both gasped for air. Down beneath the water they went, abandoning the oxygen above as they desperately searched for their drowning friend. The light created a faint ray within the silt-filled depths. Just as she was beginning to feel as if her body were freezing over, she felt something solid brush her hand and latched on, praying to god that it was not Zielinski. John beside her the moment they approached the surface, assisting in the rescue mission with an indescribable look of dread slapped across his features. They dragged the man as fast as they could to the top, Julia's lungs begging and screaming in torment until she finally broke the rippling depths. Sirens grew stronger. 

"H-hurry," John urged. "Hurry, ge-get out and help me!"

Julia released the man she had desperately retrieved and with what little strength she had, pulled herself up onto the wood and stone, ignoring how numb her limbs had become. Her body trembled and tremored, her teeth chattering against one another so violently that they could be mistaken for tiny castanets. The rosette cried out from the effort as she hooked her arms beneath Sherlock's dead-weight, pulling him up with John's help. The two were soon both on land, panting hard as their bodies shuttered and quivered. They both would give anything to lay down and rest their exhausted limbs, but they had something more important fuelling their desire to stay awake. Heavy, shuttering breaths filled the reticence. Eventually the torch light found the detective's face: he was unconscious, his eyes shut and his lips beginning to turn a horrible shade of grey. John pressed his ear to the detective's chest. 

"He isn't breathing," he indicated. Then came a stern instruction. "Julia, unbutton his coat!"

Doing as she was asked, John dropped their only source of light and glanced up at her, unbuttoning Sherlock's sodden blazer and nearly transparent white dress shirt. "You know first-aid?" Julia was immediately brought back to that afternoon at the hospital, yet she held firm and nodded vigorously, lips parted in worry. "So you know CPR! I need you to help me, alright? Just until the ambulance comes. Can to do this for me?"

Tears were already beginning to burn her turquoise set, welling within her bottom lids. "Y-yes, yes, I'll do anythi-ing--"

"Alright, I'll handle the chest-compressions," the doctor shot back, speaking so calmly yet so sternly to her. There was no doubt in her mind now that he had seen his fair share of action while deployed. Julia had to focus, for Sherlock.

John laced one hand over the other, placing them over the detective's diaphragm, and began to count aloud, the young woman quickly wiping the detective's mouth and then tilting his head back. The rosette pinched his nose, and after John had counted to thirty, she placed her fingers along the bottom of his jaw, parted his lips and breathed deeply into his frigid mouth, hearing his water-filled lungs gurgle as they expanded. After three rounds with no results, the red and blue lights were soon upon them. "--twenty-four, twenty-five--  _come_ on Sherlock!  _Breathe_!" Unable to catch her own breath, the young woman sobbed softly, hiccuping in her throat and repeating after the doctor as he begged his friend to stay with them.

"Please, please Sherlock!" she whimpered.

"--twenty-nine, thirty!"

Tilt, pinch; gasp, breathe. Gasp, breathe. The sound of shouting bounced off the walls, flashlights bouncing as the officers approached. Julia wiped her eyes, unable to hide her shock as crystalline spilled down along the bridge of Watson's nose, the man beginning to lose his composure as his tears relentlessly fell. John's hands pressed down as hard as they could go, his knuckles turning white;  _come on Sherlock!_ Once more, twice, thrice;  _you can't leave this world this soon!_

"John!" Lestrade's voice cut through the air. The inspector was there within seconds, his knees smashing into the soaked pavement beneath, the cotton of his dress pants becoming moist. "The ambulance is here, the paramedics will be along shortly." His eyes flitted over Sherlock's unconscious, drenched form, cussing beneath his breath. "He might not make it, John."

Watson reached fifteen pumps and suddenly the corpse in front of them shot to life, water gushing from his soft, pale lips. He coughed and strained, the shocked trio rolling him over onto his hands and knees as he cleared the water from his lungs, bile and saliva dripping from his gaping jaws. " _John_ ," was his first word in the land of the living, his breath coming in moist rasps. Julia, in the meantime, had fallen to pieces. Her hands gripped his sopping coat and her head pressed into his trembling back, feeling the man's cold hand resting upon her own ever so gently. "John-- Z-Zielin--"

"It's alright Sherlock," the veteran choked, losing himself to his own emotional relief. Julia's heart broke open even further for the sobbing veteran. They had both nearly lost the man they loved so dearly. "It's alright, don't think for a moment, just--"

"He can't get-- we have to-- Jo-John--"

"We're going to send a diving crew down later to find him. We will make sure that he comes with us,  _dead or alive_ ," Lestrade insisted, the detective's head coming up to meet his gaze. Sherlock's eyes were grey and dull, his cheeks burning as blood had rushed back into them. The paramedics began to swarm like hornets and all Julia could do was clutch into Mr. Holmes, her chilled body welding to his own as she cried hysterically into the back of his shirt. His grip tightened upon her fingers.

Then she was helped to her feet and swathed in a blanket, ripped away from the three-way embrace between her, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson. 


	11. Method Acting

 

❧

That morning had come so quickly that Julia could have sworn she had gotten whiplash. Her aunt had come to meet them at the hospital as soon as John had called, having to use her cell, mostly because his was completely water-logged. Watching Sherlock being given oxygen and spoken to by the paramedics had been the hardest part; the strong man she had once seen was absent, his grey eyes like that of a stranger's. After a routine check-up, they were sent to the hospital in an ambulance once more, where they came to find Mrs. Hudson in a fuss, the elderly woman dropping grocery bag full of dry clothes she had brought and running to meet them, indifferent about getting wet herself. Once her damp auburn hair had dried and she had changed into her warm leggings and a sloppy pale pink sweater, she looked at herself in the mirror of the small hospital room's bathroom. Sherlock was resting, John strewn on the bed beside him, reading a book. Her socked feet slid against the linoleum as she crossed over to the chair set beside the bed, resting a hand upon Martha Hudson's own as they quietly allowed the detective to get the sleep he deserved. 

"Do you think they'll find him?" asked her aunt suddenly, her hushed vocals wavering in the silence. The veteran looked up and over at his landlady, glancing over at Sherlock.

"From what he was mumbling about earlier, I think he may have gotten away," John doubted gently, rising from where he was and coming to hover near the bedside. He sighed, shaking his head. "How he gets off on this kind of thing-- the thrill of the chase, the concept of tricky mind-games -- I shall never understand."

Julia smiled gently. "Yet you are always right by his side," she mused.

"That is not my point," he replied, although she could tell that he was just as entertained by her statement as she was. "He's been doing this since before I had met him. Never have I met anybody so fixated on something that he would risk hypothermia in order to catch a criminal."

"That's what makes Sherlock so different," Mrs. Hudson commented, glancing between the two, then toward the detective. His eyes were still beneath his lids, indicating that he was going nowhere fast within his dreams. Julia let out a deep sigh through her nose, furrowing her brows. Perhaps it wasn't just the drive to solve crimes; perhaps it was the drive to save lives. Sherlock had to have an ulterior motive. She leaned into her palm, studying the gentleman's face as he slept. His chills had thankfully all but stopped, which was a good sign, seeing as hypothermia had been the worst case scenario, and although she understood that it may have made a cool story, she knew he wouldn't look too attractive without his ears or fingers.

Somebody cleared their throat and the rosette stirred, looking toward the culprit with furrowed brows. Standing in the doorway was a rather exhausted-looking Elliot, his hazel eyes softening in relief. Julia quickly stood up and skirted around her chair, ignoring how the two in the room stared. She made it perhaps a quarter of the way there when the two collided in a passionate embrace, the freckle-faced gentleman burying his face into hair. "Oh thank heavens," he breathed, hand resting upon the back of her head. Not even two steps behind him was Molly, the woman dewy-eyed as she rushed over to sit upon the sterile green sheets that Sherlock resided within. Julia shot a glance over her shoulder as she drew away from Mr. Francis, but then brought her attention right back to him, feeling his hands glide down her arms to hold her hands. "I came as soon as I had heard. My god, your hands are like ice."

"Are they?" she murmured, smiling meekly. She could feel her exhaustion surge to the surface, fresh tears brewing within her eyes. Elliot was so sweet. "It's almost as if I were dipped in the Thames." Elliot chuckled, mere inches away from her face. His grip tightened slightly and he guided her from the room, out into the hall. The gentleman asked her to tell him everything, and so she did, explaining the incident with Zielinski, the stand-off and the rescue. His face grew more and more grave as she explained everything in great detail. By the end of it, Julia had nestled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

They remained that way until Elliot drew away and caressed the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. "That was very brave of you, Ms. Fuller," he praised.

"Oh, believe me, I didn't feel all that brave. I was a sobbing mess half the time," she replied, sighing gently. His hands were upon her waist, rubbing circles against the fluffy surface of the cotton knit. Julia's next comment lightened the mood, however. "All while wearing one shoe."

Francis and she chuckled together in a very soft, gentle manner, the warmth shared between the two beginning to lift her dampened spirits. The faint glow of the overhead lights shown off his freshly-washed hair. He must have taken a shower before coming. She was surprised. "Trust me when I tell you, you would  _have_ to be brave to work alongside of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They get into loads of trouble, and cause twice as much."

Her slim shoulders shrugged and she looked up into his face, brushing some of his hair from his face. It was messier than usual. He hadn't taken the time to brush it, despite having been damp not long ago. She fought back a shiver as she longed for a hot shower or bath of her own. A dip in a hot tub would be heavenly at that moment. Their eyes found one another and Elliot's gaze washed over her pale features, his hand coming to find her own just before it dropped. Initially she reached up to press a brief kiss upon his cheeks, when she spotted someone rather striking stalking up the hall. He was taller than Elliot, dressed to the teeth and walking with his gloves in one hand, a few men following behind him who wore bullet-proof vests. He made direct eye-contact with his steely gaze, giving her a look of something similar to disgust as he brushed past the two.

The stranger then took a quick right, entering Sherlock's room. Alarm shot through her and she quickly broke away from Elliot, leaving him to quickly follow behind her without much context. Stepping inside, she watched as Molly quickly rose from where she had been crying upon the mattress, John consoling her. The veteran's eyes held immediate recognition, yet he remained silent, refusing to move from between him and the hospital cot. At first there was tension, the rather stuck-up looking man glancing over toward the man being protected and the veteran, but then he spoke. "John," the stranger greeted coldly.

Watson swallowed, refusing to even blink. " _Mycroft_ ," he shot back, his forced manners as sharp as a blade. "Sherlock is sleeping. You'd be best until he is awake to wait to question him."

"John, who is this?" Julia asked, cautiously stepping forward, compelled to ask, seeing as how protective he was being.

The stranger rolled his eyes. "You'd best quit playing your games, Sherlock," the man scolded, glowering over at the man in the bed. The room grew more tense as he arched a brow. "You've strung these people along for long enough-- stop teasing them."

"They're all too loud, of course I'm going to be awake," the motionless man suddenly murmured, startling everybody out of their skin. 

John let out a cuss. The detective's eyes remained glued shut, his brows furrowing sarcastically. "With Molly's obnoxious sobbing, who could? Speaking of which, would you mind toning down the perfume a bit? It's noxious to even breathe around you."

The rosette tilted her head and tongued the inside of her cheek, crossing her arms. "We've all been waiting for you to wake up this entire time, only for you to be playing possum?" she interrogated, her hip giving sassy jerk.

Sherlock's eye peeled open to peer over to where she stood. "I thought we already established this."

"Do you have any idea how worried we've all been?" John demanded, gesturing out toward the surrounding company with a wide sweep of his arm.

The detective shot the veteran a look, brow arched. However, before he could answer, Mycroft piped up, glancing around the room, wringing the gloves within his hands. "Shouldn't you be cooped up in your nasty little flat on Baker Street, brother?" he asked. He was incredibly snide.

"Right, I suppose stuffy germ-infested buildings are more your style," Sherlock shot back, attempting to sit up. Yep, they were related. "Feel free to trade places with me." His hospital gown tugged down slightly, revealing what appeared to be a swelling bruise beneath. There was no doubt within Julia's mind that it had been from the explosion. Her eyes trailed over his bruised cheekbone, as well as the cut upon his upper brow. Eventually she glanced up to meet his cold arctic set, so relieved to find that they were no longer the colour of ash.

"Julia, do not stare, it's rude," Sherlock suddenly spoke, addressing her as he had caught her looking at him. Her cheeks grew warm and she averted her gaze, turning away and coming to face Elliot. The young man was leaning in the doorway, taking in the scene before himself. He was horribly lost; she could tell just by how his eyes were pinched in question.

"How did you manage to get yourself laid up in the hospital now, dear Sherly?" Mycroft jested, smirking devilishly over at his younger sibling. "Another criminal give you, the Great Detective, the slip?"

The brunette's nose wrinkled in disgust at the little pet name, growing defiant beneath his elder brother's gaze. The intense rivalry between them was painfully obvious. "I was off my ass, unlike you," he growled. "By the way, how's the diet coming? You look fuller than before."

Mycroft tutted, drifting over toward the beautiful vase full of peach-coloured roses, courtesy of John and herself. His fingers gently ghosted over a few of the supple petals. Julia shot him a look, becoming suddenly protective over the little gift that the pair had bestowed upon their fallen friend. How dare he touch them? Something within the eldest Holmes screamed that they were not her property to be becoming defensive over. It only caused her scalding marine depths to burn deeper. "Sherlock, I don't believe you've introduced me to this young lady here," he motioned toward Miss Fuller. Elliot sensed her discomfort in the moment and snaked his hand down along her own, entwining their fingers.

"As if you even care--" John spat, although was quickly cut off as the eldest Holmes spoke once more.

"The woman you saved, no doubt," he noted, turning toward Sherlock. "Please to see life behind her eyes, as opposed to how they would look staring out of a body bag."

"Mycroft--" Sherlock was staring straight at her, his patience wearing thin.  
  
Mycroft sneered once more. "Brother-dearest?"

" _Why_  are you here?"

"To check up on you," the man mused, tilting his head in a pleasant fashion. Sherlock was far from pleased to see his brother, his eyes sealing shut and his jaw working as he struggled to keep his composure. "To see how much of a horrible mess you have made of this little adventure of yours has gone."

"So, you came to  _laugh_  at him?" Julia astonished bitterly, her voice's sudden appearance startling nearly everybody within the room. Mrs Hudson, out of all of them, was the most befuddled. Molly quietly scurried over to her and helped her out of her chair, the two making for the door. "This man, here-- your  _brother_  -- just saved hundreds of young lives and nearly died in the process. You must be some sort of sorry jackass to get a kick out of that!" Mouths fell open; even Sherlock seemed a bit shaken by her sudden brazen act. As Elliot stepped out of the way so that Molly and her aunt could make their escape, he gave her hand a squeeze. Even  _he,_ the most patient man she had ever met (next to John),did not want to be caught up in this.

"I'll see you in a few," she murmured gently, breaking away from him. Julia wished that the strawberry-blonde had told her to come with him, for then she could escape this rather tense situation, but Elliot did not say anything more. Once the quartet were alone, Julia wheeled on the eldest brother, eyes ablaze. With each sentence, she closed the distance between herself and the eldest Holmes brother. "Go ahead and laugh, but you'll be laughing at me, you'll be laughing at John, and you'll be laughing in the faces of those who have been busting their asses and those who have died in the process. That's pretty cowardly in my books."

At this point, she was mere steps away from colliding with the tyrant of a man. His lips were open in a small "o" and his eyes were bearing into her with growing ire. "And I suppose that's all you are, then? I knew you were nothing but a weasel when you walked through that door--"

The distance was closed between the two and his hand clamped down upon her arm, wrenching it up in the air. His nails dug into her exposed skin, most likely leaving bruises in their wake. John shouted and there was the sound of someone's feet finding the ground. Mycroft hissed, "You may as well be pointing a gun to your own bloody head, Miss Fuller!"

Panic struck her so quickly that she was momentarily blinded, her opposite hand sailing up through the air and her nails connected with the man's face, earning an enraged cry. He staggered away, passing over his lacerated cheek and coming away in order for him to stare at his blood-smeared finger tips. Mycroft's lip curled and he lunged forward, slamming into her with one of his shoulders as he strode past her, his once perfect hair now dishevelled. Julia was left only to stare at the empty space in front of her, nursing her aching wrist. As her eyes drifted to the pair left within the room with her, she was suddenly stupefied as she found Sherlock Holmes, who was miraculous frozen upon his bed, as if he had prepared to intervene. If not for John's hand holding him back by the chest, the situation could have escalated even further, judging by the blood-thirst behind the detective's gaze.

"Julia?" John called gently, drawing her from her adrenaline high. "Are you alright?"

"I'm -- I.." Julia couldn't find the words, taking a step back, suddenly afraid of the other two men within the room. Eventually, as they did not come to approach her, she began to slowly unwind. Clearing her throat, she nodded her head, eyes falling to the linoleum tiles. "Yes. I'm fine." Tugging her cuffed sleeve down over her wrists, she hugged herself.

 She was just glad that he was gone.


	12. The Devil's Taste In Music

 

❧

It had taken hours for Lestrade to get back to the hospital to give them the news that Mycroft had already broken to them. Brendan Zielinski had disappeared beneath the radar, the weather too cold to send their divers down for long enough. Sherlock had been pleased though, seeing as they had found traces of human DNA upon the boats that were typically docking in the fishery's little lagoon. With the culprit gone, the danger was no longer present, and the police no longer needed the detective's handiwork. Snow fell from the gunmetal clouds above, the flakes practically glowing against the dark pavement of the parking lot. Molly had already spoken with the detective, taking his hand and begging him to be more careful, only for him to dismiss her with a pat on the arm and a scoff, lecturing her on her perfume again.

It was hilarious how blind Sherlock was to her affections.

The man almost appeared a hollow shell of his former self without his deep grey trench coat. It would most likely be a little while before he finally got a chance to send it to the dry-cleaners. Before Mrs. Hudson, John Watson, Julia Fuller and Sherlock Holmes could all pile into their respective taxi cab, Elliot pulled up in his cheap old car not far from them, calling her over. "Julia, want to stop at the coffee shop for breakfast?" He leaned out the window of the vehicle, cupping one hand around his mouth in order for his voice to travel.

She paused beside Sherlock, the detective having held the door open for her, and then excused herself. "I'll meet up with you guys la--"

" _No_ ," Mr. Holmes unexpectedly snapped, catching hold of her sleeve and pulling her back toward the taxi. Julia nearly leapt out of her skin upon the sudden contact, pivoting around to face him.

"What is your  _damage_ , Sherlock?" she questioned, stepping up to the plate and challenging the detective. "I do believe that the case is over."

"There is cleaning up to do, Miss Fuller. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will want you around for that."

"Is cleaning the only thing I'm good for, then?" she exasperated, yanking her sleeve away from him. John awkwardly cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat.

Sherlock was furious at her accusation, his lip curling. "That is not what I mean at all, Julie, and you know it. Your ignorance is not charming in the slightest, now get in the cab." There was a brief juncture before the rosette wheeled around, making a b-line for Elliot's car.

The sound of the detective's shoes against the wet tarmac alerted her to his approach, the man following after her in pure determination. "Now listen to me--"

Her hand fumbled for the handle and she threw the door open, climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed between the two of them, cutting Holmes off. "Elliot, start the car," she requested, staring straight ahead through the vehicle's milky windshield. The wipers squelched as they pushed the gathering snow away from the driver's line of sight.

Sherlock was at her level, bending into the window. "Julie!"

"You are acting like a goddamn child!" she hissed, turning to Sherlock and shoving her face in his own. The detective flinched backward. "If you believe that every person in this goddamn world will do your bidding, then you are sorely mistaken, Mr. Holmes." She fell back into her seat, whipping the nylon belt across her chest and lap, latching it into place. For once, she had managed to leave the detective speechless. "I will be seeing you. Do  _not_  call me."

The vehicle rolled forward and they exited the lot. Julia watched as the strapping gentleman grew smaller and smaller within the rear-view mirror. Her throat tightened and she held her breath, blinking away the tears that had surged to the surface. "I'm so sorry for his behaviour..." she murmured gently, her hand resting upon Elliot's arm.

"I have seen how he behaves before," he mused, shrugging it off. His eyes remained upon the road ahead, slowing for pedestrians as they attempted to make their way out of the hospital's cluttered parking lot. The rest of the drive was quiet, and for a moment, she wondered what it would be like to be in Sherlock's shoes. Perhaps he didn't understand that their unspoken agreement to work in tandem had come to a final close the night that Brendan had died. She nestled into her coat, her gut twisting as she caught faint traces of the detective's musk caught within her scarf. Elliot parked them just outside of a quaint cafe, and as soon as they stepped foot inside, they were assaulted by the heavenly aroma of english breakfast and pastries.

Julia was ravenous, and Elliot being so generous, he ordered her as much as she wanted from the menu, the two sharing bits and pieces from their meals between each other. It was almost as if her life wasn't constantly being interrupted by the needs of a genius sociopath. If Julia wanted that sort of life, she would head back home to Glasgow. Her phone on silent, she drummed her fingers against the table, taking the last bite from the piece of quiche the two had managed to polish off together. "So, do you think that Zielinski will come back with an eye-patch, or a missing hand?" Elliot teased.

The rosette just about choked on her food, covering her mouth in an attempt to remain graceful. "Sure," she shrugged. The man sitting across from her snickered into his palms, trying to remain quiet in such a classy place. "If he lived and had gotten away from Sherlock last night, I'll even make him a hook for good measure."

"Wouldn't your life make an incredible novel?" Elliot suggested, chuckling ever so softly. "I would read it in a heartbeat. It would be a bestseller."

Julia felt a pleasant wave of warmth spread throughout her belly as she took note of how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. It was adorable. His hazel irises were certainly a drastic change in comparison to Mr. Holmes' biting pale Egyptian blues. They were warm and chocolatey, flecked with olive, accompanied by bits of deep teal and honey. The young man leaned into his palm, gazing at her with his own reverence. "How could a man like him treat a woman like you in such a way?" Elliot wondered aloud. She let out a short scoff and shook her head. "I'm only calling it as it is. You are a guest within his home, you're a beautiful and incredibly smart woman-- I just cannot, for the life of me, understand why he insists on treating you off and on."

"It's just how Sherlock works," Julia sighed, shaking her head and glanced off out the massive windows. The sun was bleeding through the clouds for once, bringing a heavenly glow that touched the faint pinpricks of down that fell to earth and dissolved upon the sidewalk. "He's hot one moment and then the next he's cold." Her eyes fell and she reached up to fold a strand of ginger behind her ear. Suddenly, Elliot had reached across the table and latched onto her arm, causing her to flinch. Pulling away the cuffed sleeve of her sweater, he unveiled the purple bruises and faintly gouged indents from the incident before. Julia was shocked. Had Mycroft grabbed her  _that_  hard?

"Did he do this to you?" His cheerful disposition was gone, his face sculpted by growing anger. The words were bunched within his mouth, yet remained quick and collected. The rosette's lips parted. Elliot looked as if he were ready to go to war.

" _No_!" she laughed nervously, realising that Elliot thought the man was abusing her in some manner. "No way. Sherlock would never hurt me... this was his brother."

Elliot gave her a look of suspicion. Julia sat back in her seat, allowing another sigh to pass her lips. She  _really_  didn't want to have to explain this. "I angered that man who came into the room just a little while before Sherlock got himself dressed and we left."

" _Him_?"

The rosette nodded, blinking slowly. He slowly rested back in the booth-chair, gradually coming to grips with just who this man was. "Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock is the youngest, from my recollection. John certainly did not like him one bit, and Mrs. Hudson fled with Molly in the blink of an eye. I have to wonder... what kind of a man he is." The young woman raised her cup and took a sip, the rich perfume of Earl Grey flooding her senses. "I suppose that I was a bit too... harsh. We had just met and I'm sure that he did not enjoy being insulted."

"You were defending your friend, Jewels," Elliot pointed out. The word 'friend' hung above Sherlock's head like some strange looming cloud. It was like a hat or a tie that did not quite suit him; like a button out of place on a jacket that you just needed to tweak and adjust, but you are too afraid you'll break it off altogether. The title was strange, because it did not quite capture the essence of their relationship. To call Sherlock her friend was... new and awkward, like a child trying to speak for the first time. She would have to get used to it. "Still, I hope that if you ever anger Sherlock, he wouldn't react in such a severe manner."

"I've pissed him off quite a few times," she explained plainly, offering a cheeky, doubtful grin. "It usually ends with me being yelled at and then given the silent treatment for a week or so."

"And how do you get back in his good books?"

"Help him solve something, I suppose." Julia took another swallow of her tea. The young man before her ran a hand up through his flaxen crown. They sat within comfortable reticence for a moment or two, simply gazing out the window at the snow above, eyeing the Christmas lights in the shops surrounding them. Right, the holidays were only a few weeks away. She would have to think of some sort of gift for John and Sarah, seeing as they were growing more serious lately. Her lungs expanded within her chest as she pondered upon something for her auntie, as well as for Sherlock. Perhaps some more violin cleaner would work for him, but she wasn't one-hundred percent sure. Come to think of it, she had never really thought to ask about such a thing. Her head turned to face Elliot as his fingers interlaced with her own.

"Do you want to go ice-skating some time?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh, I don't know. I haven't since I was little... I took lessons for a few months, but my mother and I never saw eye-to-eye. She insisted that I perform in contests, but I was always too nervous. I have stage-fright, you know."

Elliot let out a soft  _'peh'_  of dismissal and waved a hand, shaking his head. "You won't have to worry about people staring at you. I can hardly do it myself!"

Julia's lips flattened together and she shrugged. "I'll think about it. We'd have to work around your schedule anyway. Besides, I don't even have a pair of skates..."

"Fair enough," he chuckled. A Coldplay song suddenly started up, blaring from the speaker of Elliot's phone, indicating that he was receiving a phone call. He scrambled for it, clearly nervous to answer, the music quickly ended as soon as he swiped the screen to the right. "Hello?" Julia watched him as he stood up, holding up a finger and whispering to her that he would be right back. "Yes, they were in the hospital. I had to rush at nearly four in the morning..." The scientist rose from their booth table and took his call outside of the little cafe, leaving her on her own. She silently stacked the three plates they had both picked clean, then reached into her purse to look upon her face. Her scuffed hands still hurt from the little scrape-up at the docking station, but otherwise she was spotless. Her skin was smooth and her cheeks flushed, most likely because of the warmth within the building. She was so grateful for warm sweaters and thick coats now, wanting to keep her body temperature as comfortable as possible. Julia really did hope that she would never have to pull Sherlock from the Thames again. It would surely make her sick.

Humming softly to herself, she tapped her foot. It had been completely rational for her to be angry with how Sherlock had been acting, was it not? Taking a sip of her drink, she quietly mouthed the words to the song she had recently been listening to:  _Butterfly Waltz_  by Brian Crain. Her fingers drummed along rhythmically, wondering if perhaps she should apologise to Sherlock and get it over with. It was, after all, just a silly little argument. Then again, though, she was becoming jaded by Sherlock's demanding nature. Julia was only one person. Surely the man understood, despite his sociopathic tendencies, that she could only be around for so long before she grew restless. London was a heavily populated metropolis that she wanted to explore. She had only seen a small portion of it so far, understanding how to get from place to place between Baker Street, Bartholomew's and the grocery store. Twiddling with a piece of her hair, she sighed softly.

"You have quite the voice," remarked a gentleman in a clean sweater-vest, a striped dress-shirt and jeans. Julia's head turned rather quickly. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his neck craned gently to the side, a faint smile curling at his lips. His eyes were as black as coal. Politely returning his grin, she tried to ignore how her ears began to turn pink under his gaze. He sure had a peculiar way of approaching someone and saying hello.

"Thank you," she replied, a bit flustered by the man's sudden commentary.

"May I?" the stranger asked, gesturing toward the seat where Elliot had once resided. She tugged her sleeve further down her arm, suddenly self-conscious about how she looked beneath his deeply perceptive gaze. Nodding gently, Julia granted him access to join her, the man letting out a comfortable sigh as he plopped down across from her. One of his arms extended out over the tabletop and he offered her a handshake. His grip was tight as he introduced himself, his skin surprisingly soft. "Jim Moriarty. And yourself?"

"Julia Fuller," the rosette answered as they broke from one another. "You live here in London?"

"Off and on, mostly here for business," Jim shrugged, waving a hand and crossing his arms over his chest. He spoke with the faintest bit of irish tongue. Mr. Moriarty splayed his legs beneath the booth, becoming as cosy as possible as he leaned forward upon his forearms. His coat was speckled with melting flakes of frozen crystals.

"I suppose I can related to that. My aunt was sick for a while with a nasty case of pneumonia, so I was cleaning both her flat as well as my neighbour's until she was finally back on her feet."

His brows rose and he looked a bit surprised. "Really! How'd you get roped into that?" he queried once again, clearly shocked by the sudden workload. "Were you even paid?"

Julia bit back a laugh. Her? Paid? "My aunt has always been more of a proper guardian to me than my mother and father. You see, back when I lived in Glasgow, she would write me letters because she doesn't have a cell phone or email." The rosette palmed the warm mug in her hand, reminding herself that she would need to finish it soon, or else it could go cold.

"I needed to get away from trouble at home, so I offered to come help out around the house until she was well again. I managed to put together some money for a plane ticket." She left out the bit about Sherlock Holmes, trying to put him out of her mind at this point. She was not going to allow the thought of him to ruin her day. "I didn't count on having to deal with two obnoxious flatmates next door, but... well, I'm just glad that my aunt Martha is doing better."

"Letter mail is always a nice change from technology," Jim pointed out, pulling out his own cell phone. It was a Blackberry, much like her own, only kept within a case, the keyboard plastered to the front. "More reliable, in a sense, if you believe that sort of crap." Julia and Jim shared a soft laugh. "But hey, good on you for doing that for your aunt."

Her head bobbed and she blinked softly, her pearly whites flashing in the warm morning light. "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty."

"Oh, please, call me Jim. It makes me feel more like a friend than an acquaintance." Jim then tilted his head and he changed the subject. "Hey, do you know any Christmas carols?"

"Who doesn't?" she teased, earning a hushed chuckle from the man. It was deep within his chest, something different in comparison to the scientist's own mirth. It was odd; never before had she really felt comfortable around a complete stranger, and here she was now, making pleasant small-talk with a man she had only met a few moments ago. Perhaps her confidence was growing?

"Sing something for me then?" Moriarty requested, leaning to the side and offering a sly grin. His raven gaze pinched slightly as he waited for her to perform for him. Julia shifted in her seat and glanced around. What a strange request! Taking a deep breath, the young woman thought of the first song that came to mind. Her lips parted and she took began to softly serenade her newfound friend, the words to  _Come All Ye Faithful_ dancing off her tongue. Jim's head careened back and he sighed, shutting his eyes and raising his hands, as if conducting her every note. This caused her to giggle, the sound bubbling in the throat and damaging a few of the notes, her supple voice tightening before smoothing itself out once again. She finished the first chorus, jumping as his hand collided with the marble table between them.

" _That_ ," he effused, emphasising the word with vigour, "was incredible, Ms. Julia!" He raised his mitts and clapped for her, her one-man audience letting out a hoop of adulation. Julia couldn't stop her laughter as he beamed over at her, his applause filling the little cafe and turning heads. He sure was a peculiar fellow.

"Who's this?" Elliot's voice suddenly interrupted, glancing between her and Jim with curiosity. He was attempting to keep his wariness concealed, she could tell just from his body language. Who wouldn't? He had just returned to find a complete stranger in his seat. The newcomer slithered from the booth and rose, forcing the scientist to step to the side to let him out.

"Jim," he simply replied, snatching the slightly taller man's hand and giving him a wide-eyed look. "And I didn't realise that I had been keeping you for so long."

The redhead's smile faltered and her brows furrowed. He was leaving so soon? "Oh Jim, you mustn't leave just yet. I'd love to buy you a coffee."

The man offered her a wink. "Maybe next time, honey. My lunch break actually ended fifteen minutes ago, so I must be going." He stuffed his hand in his pocket and then made to leave, only to stop. "Oh! Julia? We should meet up again sometime soon. Perhaps we could go carolling."

"Sounds smashing!" she purred, waving him goodbye. Jim eyed her one last time, taking a step backwards before he pivoted on the second, quickly travelling to the door and exiting with the chime of the cafe's doorbell following in tow. The silence was thick and awkward afterwards. Glancing over his shoulder, Elliot narrowed his eyes and then came to sit down where Moriarty had once been. His head finally turned and he met Julia's gaze.

"Do you know him?" he asked.

"I actually just met him," Julia admitted, her shoulders rolling. She brought her cup to her mouth and finished her earl grey in two swallows. Her hand dipped into her purse, admittedly nervous as to how many notifications she had. To her surprise, she found that only her aunt had called her, the landline phone number standing out to her upon the screen. She had a notification from her email, but otherwise that was it. Not a single message from Sherlock. The young woman shut her phone off, turning her head up to look upon Elliot Francis once more.

"Sherlock?"

Julia shook her head, stirring in her seat for the first time in a while and crossing one leg over the other. "Evidently, no." Her mind drifted to the run-in with Jim and she suddenly remembered something that caused her great disappointment.  _Damn! I forgot to ask for his number._ Hopefully she would run into him again soon so they could catch up. "Who was calling you?"

"Management. They were wondering why I never showed up," Elliot explained hastily. He tapped his fingers upon his empty glass of orange juice. "Would you like to get going?"

The rosette nodded and the two of them rose, allowing her to stretch her sore limbs. She had found her elbows, knees and back to be sore after the exertion from the night before, her body slightly rejuvenated however after a spot of breakfast. Elliot paid the cashier once again and Julia felt a bit depressed that she couldn't have offered her own cut of the meal herself, seeing as it came to nearly €26 altogether. They pulled on their coats and made sure they were warm enough before stepping out into the chilly morning. The wind ruffled her scarlet hair, goosebumps breaking out on her arms beneath her thick sweater and her coat. The two walked and chatted for a while, ducking through traffic and waiting at lights. It took them a little while to finally make it to Baker Street, and as Julia approached the street, she began to feel as if her feet were growing heavier and heavier. She really didn't want to see Sherlock again.

Maybe she could simply invite Elliot up to her aunt's flat for a bit, showing him a bit of piano. "What are you up to after this?" she inquired softly as she rifled for her keys. She was slightly surprised when she didn't hear the detective playing one of his usual sonatas, but removed that from her mind. Perhaps he wasn't home altogether?

"I have to work late tonight," he replied, laughing halfheartedly. They stepped into the stairwell and the door shut behind themselves. They began to ascend the stairs, heading for 221B, their voices filling the small space. The stairs cracked loudly beneath their feet. "Gregory wants me to make up the hours to him. He's a stickler for that sort of thing."

"You do more paperwork than deal with the actual bodies," Julia pointed out, glancing over her shoulder. "I would expect that from management for someone like Molly, but you? You're more of an office-worker, are you not?" The young woman moved to place her keys back in her pocket when the floorboards between the two of them stirred and she looked up, coming to find that Elliot was less than an arm's length away from her. Her eyes searched his own, her face flushing as soon as he reached over and brushed her cheek with his fingers.

They were both eager, closing the centimetres between one another, their lips gently brushing. The kiss was gradual and gentle, both a bit timid now, unsure about how the other felt. His hands were still cold from being outside, causing prickles to break out across her arms as his thumb graced across her ear. Her arms wrapped slowly up around his neck, resting upon either of his shoulders and crossing over one another. Elliot leaned even closer, his kiss deepening momentarily until he broke away, the two of them breathing heavily as they gazed into one another's eyes. A silent agreement was made then, the flaxen-haired man releasing her from his grip and coming to press his lips to her cheek. "I'll see you around, Julia," he murmured. Their hands connected momentarily until he pulled himself free, turned and exited down the old creaking timber steps.

Elliot Francis.  _Maybe this is the beginning of something new,_ she wondered to herself, unable to contain the smile upon her lips. Pride flared within her as she turned the doorknob and stepped inside the flat's living room. The rosette came to a halt. Three heads turned in rapid-fire shots, a particular head of brunette curls being the last to follow through.

 He was resting back in his chair, one leg over the other, his left arm splayed out on the armrest while the other he leaned his face into. John was standing behind Sherlock, hands within his pockets as he had just been listening intently to a woman settled in his chair, tissues in hand, her makeup running down her cheeks and chin. "How nice of you to join us, Miss Fuller."

His tone was so disdainful and yet so syrupy that she had to bite her cheek, refusing to show any sign of irritation. He was clearly wanting a reaction. Why give it to him? She stepped inside and shut the door behind herself, glancing around in search of her aunt. "Is aunt Martha around?" asked the young woman.

"She went to the store to get some more tea," John answered, glancing between her and the detective. The woman in Watson's chair sniffled. Her hair was the colour of milkweed, her nose tiny and her teeth straight. She was wearing a flowing blue blouse and a pair of white slacks. Judging by the ring on her finger, her husband was wealthy. Very wealthy.

The detective brought his hands together in their usual triangular formation, pressing the pads of his fingers together. "Please, sit," Sherlock proposed rather sternly. The young woman did not acknowledge his side-glance as she set her purse down by the door and began to remove her scarf and coat. Why had she decided to come here instead of to her aunt's, she did not know.

Julia shook her head. "No thank you."

"Oh, I  _insist_ ," he pressed, flashing a sarcastic smile.

Turning her head, she offered her own grin, and then proceeded to skirt along to the kitchen. " _No_ , thank you. I have some tidying up to do."

"I'm... sorry, is there something  _wrong_?" the woman in the seat suddenly hiccuped, confused by their quarrel. "Should I leave you two for a moment so you can sort things out?" Sherlock, John and Julia all began to speak to her, telling her it was alright for her to stay, scrambling in order to hide their own personal drama.

"No! I apologise, it's fine miss--"

"It's alright, they're just a bit tense from last night--"

"Don't be ridiculous, she is just being stubborn-- now  _ **sit**_!"

The detective's aggravated voice rose and dissolved the chatter into silence, his eyes cutting into Julia with the ferocity of a predator. Even as she turned around and disappeared into the scullery, heading for the bathroom down the hall, she could feel his eyes still chewing into her skin and burying itself under her nails. After everything Julia had conveyed to him, he was still acting as if he owned her, treating her as if she were his pet that he could call to his side at any moment for a scratch behind the ears. She threw the door open and stepped inside of the comfortably narrow room, slamming it shut behind herself. Julia gazed at herself in the mirror, her turquoise eyes tracing the dark bags beneath them, drawing her to the conclusion that she needed to rest. Sighing in frustration, Julia leaned back against the egress behind her.

Flash images of Sherlock's ashen face flashed through her mind and she bit hard into her tongue, trying to ignore the memories that washed over her, bringing tears to her eyes. His mouth had felt so cold as she had helped John perform CPR on the detective, and she knew that they might lose him at any moment. Her hands had trembled and she hugged herself, shaking her head and straightening. She had gone sleepless for one night and suddenly could no longer think about Sherlock without having a hernia. He was the most infuriating man she had ever met, and yet... she couldn't bring herself to stay away. He hated Elliot, despised her attitude, had the tendency to drive her up the wall, and somehow Julia still kept returning to his side at the end of the day.

There was a knock at the door and the rosette turned, rotating the handle. She just about jumped out of her skin she realized that it was him, her eyes first fastening themselves to his black button-up. His arms were crossed. "What?" she asked, offering a hard  _t_  on the end of the word.

"You are upset, but you won't talk to me. Is there something you would like to share?" he demanded. "Because I can guarantee that I will pry it out of you one way or another."

Julia laughed drily. "Oh, what  _isn't_  wrong, Mr. Holmes?" she hissed, tears welling in her eyes as the choking claws of anger and anxiety crawled their way up her spine. "You've been acting as if you have me on a leash and I'm not allowed to go too far, or else you yank me right back. You've been nothing but cold and bitter toward me since your brother showed up this morning."

Sherlock's throat stirred and he looked as if he were thinking so hard that his head might blow off. Was he struggling to understand what she was trying to convey? "For someone so smart, I figured you would at least be able to comprehend how I feel, but instead you're as callous as ever. I do not know what happened to us between the time we were exchanging those letters up until now, but whatever it is, I  _loathe_  it. I loathe  _you_! Who you've turned out to be, who you've made me into, and what you've forced me into."

"Oh for bloody sakes, I never  _wrote_  those goddamn letters!" Julia felt her heart drop into her belly. "Don't act as if you haven't been enjoying this!" the detective growled. "Your life was far from exciting back in Glasgow, back where you were just some homely waitress scrambling to the common pillocks. This profession isn't for everyone, but with your potential and aptitude, you flourished and you have nobody else to thank but me. I saved you. I brought you back to life and you cannot deny that this is what you were waiting for, Miss Fuller!"

"I certainly wasn't waiting for some arrogant prick to come along and tell me what I already know!" Julia shoved him back and Sherlock grunted, then lunged, causing her to yelp in protest. John yelled from the next room, the woman they had been interviewing speaking in a frightened voice, asking Mr. Watson what was going on. Before she could calculate her means of escape, he had slammed her back into the porcelain sink and latched onto her wrist just before it could fly forward, stopping her dead in her tracks.

All Julia could recall was that she had told Elliot that this man would never harm her. Now, she was unsure. "What, Mr. Holmes, are you going to  _deduce_  me? Go ahead. Tell me what you know! Tell me that you understand how John and I were sobbing over you as you lay there, dying on that factory floor!"

"I know! I  _understand_!" Sherlock thundered, his grip tightening. "You don't think that it was all explained to me when I woke up with all of you foolish people sleeping around me? John's body temperature was just beginning to return to normal by time Mycroft arrived!"

Her voice lowered. "Then you understand how hard it was for us? When we were trying to resuscitate you? We nearly lost you, Sherlock, and yet you've been nothing but a complete jackass." She paused, taking a shallow breathe. His hand immediately loosened, which allowed her to slide from his grasp and wrap her arms around his torso, hugging him fiercely. 

Her entire body trembled against the detective, feeling him snake his limbs up around her to hold her just as tightly. Sherlock took a deep breath and then allowed it to hiss from his lips. Her face nestled into his chest, her fingers clinging to the fabric upon his back, her tears seeping out onto his clothing in large dark patches. She could feel his heart beating quickly in his ribcage as the two just stood there, gripping one another as if they had been apart for years.

"I understand, Julie," Sherlock rasped. "Now please, stop screaming."

"I have," she choked.


	13. It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

❧

"I gotta admit, it's 'n honour bein' able to have the Holmes team in my house," the client gushed, side-stepping as he let the investigators make their way inside. He was short, weighing an unhealthy 120lbs, his face slightly scruffy and a cap of blonde fuzz simply slapped atop his head. His name was Otis Cobb, in his late forties and could probably cut someone just from speaking with his snaggle-tooth maw. The house was a dingy shade of off-white, all light having been previously shut out by multiple sets of long, thick, musty-smelling sienna drapes. It had been six months since the man had last cleaned, let alone moved from the indented couch-chair settled in the middle of the room. The inside of the den was charred, striped in ash, all colour burned away in spots upon the tacky floral wallpaper.

"So, can you tell us exactly what happened here?" John asked as he came to stand beside the scrawny man. His hands tucked into his pockets and he peered around, up at the popcorn ceiling. There was no television in the room, one small coffee table laying collapsed upon the ground from where it had fallen apart in the blaze. The acrid smell of burning glue filled Sherlock's nose. He had put the wallpaper up himself, clearly against his own will. What on earth had his wife been thinking?

"I work at the corner store gas station just a little while from 'ere, n' my landlord called me durin' my night shift 'n' told me that my house 'ad been broken into. When I got 'ere, they had already arrested him." His muddy eyes latched onto Sherlock, the detective glancing down at his hands. An indent upon his ring finger from where he had once worn a wedding ring. Freshly divorced; he could still hear how he had thrown the ring across the room, how it had clattered down into the vent off to the side of the rather lived-in man-cave. Cobb's accent was nauseating. "My own flesh 'n' blood. I couldn't believe it."

"Our only trouble, Otis, is that the police have told us that your brother has been pleading innocent, meaning that brings us right back to the beginning," Sherlock disclosed, standing from where he had knelt to examine the register sitting by the window. He skirted around a member of the forensic team. "When the fire started. Now, when your wife left two days ago, did she mention anything about what had happened between her and your brother?"

Otis physically tensed, shock painting his features. "How--"

John chuckled softly as the detective continued, hands behind his back. "You have recently and suddenly filed a divorce against your wife, Darlene Eleanor Cobb: Darlene West now. You were not holding up her expectations as a man, and, your brother, being more enticing for a woman as he has far more wealth and, not to mention, does not abuse the bottle-- she naturally turns to him in her time of need. You know the rest, do you not?"

"I gave up booze two years ago!" Otis spat. It was incredible how quickly someone could grow hostile when the truth was thrown straight into their face.

"Clearly not," John piped up, frowning deeply. "Your breath wreaks of the stuff and we found freshly opened bottles in the backyard."

Sherlock nodded and gave Cobb a dip of his head as well, enjoying how pragmatically John had looked upon the situation. He never ceased to amaze him. Taking a quick breath, Sherlock turned toward a rather dumbfounded analyst, dressed in his plastic contamination suit, and spoke quietly to him. "Keep the authorities outside aware of the situation in here."

"What! Do you think I'd burn my own house?"

"We have to consider every single option," the doctor replied, sauntering back over to Otis. The man's jaws were gaping in shock. He raised a hand and splayed it in front of him, trying to relax the man in front of them. "You have to understand, no detail can go neglected."

The sound of the house shifting ever so slightly drew his attention. Sherlock's head rose and he laid eyes upon Julia's fine frame as she weaselled around the doctor and the upset man. John immediately smiled and placed a hand on top of her own as soon as it rested atop his arm. Her hair was still visibly damp and her cheeks were flushed, indicating that she had showered before she had rushed over to the scene of the crime. She had not thought out her outfit very well, the pale blue faux-denim button-up and jeans combination giving away her slap-job attempt. "Just wake up now, Julie?" Holmes shot over at her, causing her attention to turn from Otis' dewy eyes. A faint smile twitched at her lips.

Ten days without error. They had worked together again like clockwork, whether it was while debating about musical pieces or solving small crimes with him and John.

"Yes, Sherlock, about an hour ago," she replied, stepping over in his direction. She had perhaps two cups of coffee in her, yet she still hadn't eaten breakfast given that she had nothing else on her breath but the smell of cherry gum and Irish cream. Her auburn hair was pinned up cleverly, her slender neck pale and spotless. Mrs. Hudson had allowed her to borrow her pearl earrings, so it seemed. Julia was wearing her traditional perfume, yet unlike Molly's, he could actually stand the smell of it. "Slept past my goddamn alarm."

As soon as the young woman disappeared into the next room to find Lestrade, he could tell that Cobb would have questions. "That was Miss Julia Fuller. She'll be searching your belongings, in case you have anything to hide in your  _bedroom_."

Otis paled and swallowed. "That the girl from the papers?" he asked then, slowly sauntering over in order to stand next to Sherlock. John had been correct in saying that the man smelled of booze.

"Yes, she is," John responded a bit sternly, picking up on the underlying desire within Cobb's tenor voice. Something about how the man's eyes slid up and down her legs as she examined the case file with Inspector Lestrade sparked a chain reaction within the room. The detective hummed and stepped directly into his line of sight, glowering down into his eyes. With a toothy grin, he offered a look of apology to Sherlock, aware of how inappropriate his ogling had been. A rather ungraceful laugh resounded from Otis' throat. The three parted and the duo began to examine the room.

The morning drew on and the house almost was silent, the rather emotional man outside speaking with police as they grilled him about what had recently been happening between his wife and his brother. Julia had finally made it to the sitting room one last time before they were to take their leave and head to the station for more questioning. Sherlock was returning from downstairs with John at his side, when he suddenly heard Julia come flying up to the base of the stairs. "Sherlock!"

"What?" he shouted back from the top of the steps.

"You're going to want to have a look at this!" The detective exchanged a look with his companion, although they weren't as surprised that Julia had been the one to spot something. Strolling down the stairs at quite a jaunt, he made it to the hall and hastily followed behind her, straight into the basement where they found a pile of old oil paintings stacked together in a roughed-up pile, each torn up and cut until unrecognisable, disappointing Sherlock. This man was not a fan of art, but to go to such lengths as to destroy it without trying to make profit made no sense to him.

"Petrol cans," John whispered from the laundry room, pulling one of them from the cold cement floor. The information was processed, quickly divided and then calculated within the detective's head. His alibi was fragile and full of holes, leaving space so that Sherlock could easily break through in order to see the real intention behind his actions. The man had been hoping the fire would spread while he was safe at work, leaving him out of the picture, however he did not take into account his kind, naturally concerned neighbours. This man did not seem like the type to be a secret pyromaniac.

"Help me look through these," Sherlock ordered Julia. "John, collect all those cans up. We'll need them as evidence." The redhead followed his lead and the two lifted and searched through every single painting, both having come to a silent understanding. Not too long ago, it had been discovered that someone had broken into the house belonging to a wealthy gentleman by the name of Craig Lester, stealing multiple pieces of jewellery and one single painting. Later on, there had been a string of theft around the neighbourhood, which had evidently been passed off as a bunch of rowdy minors. If Sherlock's theory was correct, they had just solved a few dozen cases at once. Sure enough, as they neared the end of their search, they found a charred canvas and flipped it over, reading the initials of the artist in question.

Julia beamed, turning to Sherlock with her dainty hands smeared in ash, handing him the massive bronze-painted wooden frame. Oh, he couldn't wait to see the look on Otis Cobb's stupid face when they strolled on out with the evidence in hand. They would all be closing up for the day to revisit evidence back at the base and Sherlock would be standing proud with John at his side, as always, making a fool out of them. He honestly was too good to be true. Julia helped lift the object, coming to meet the doctor in the middle of the room. The man was eager to leave. "Great! Now, let's get out of here."

"You don' have a permit to be down here."

Sherlock turned rigid as the veteran wheeled around and stopped Otis from charging. The man was livid, his nostrils flaring and his crooked teeth bared, having stumbled upon them while coming down to check on his precious trove.. "Those aren't for you to go through!"

"You never owned them!" Julia hissed. "How can you claim them as your own?"

"They were gifts, for m' wife," Otis wept, his emotions growing more and more erratic.

Sherlock tilted his head. "You were trying to spoil her into staying, weren't you?" he tuned in, narrowing his eyes slightly. "How silly. She would have left you regardless of whether she had accepted it or not. You refurbished this house, yet you never cut the grass or fixed the leaks in the ceiling. All you knew was to steal, and so you did what you do best. You got tanked up and smashed a window or two, and stole what you thought could save your marriage."

Cobb suddenly lunged, although Watson was quick to snatch hold of him, hooking one arm up beneath his own to fascine himself to his back, the other wrapping around the man's rapidly heaving chest. "I loved her, sir!" Otis stressed, trying to appeal to Sherlock's inner nature. Unfortunately, there was no such thing. His brow cocked. John gritted his teeth, his eyes pleading Sherlock to finish this up. "I did it for her. It was all for her!"

"Regardless, you still tried to destroy it after she left you," he observed, his voice coming out in a nearly monotone fashion. "You were left with the guilt and pain, and it overwhelmed you. Judging by those bruises around your throat that you've done a poor job at hiding behind your collar, you were unsuccessful at attempting to take your own life. So, you gave up on destroying yourself and focused on destroying the very objects that you sacrificed your well-being for. It was all simply to please your wife and you went beyond what any normal human would."

The young woman in the room stood with her gaze fixated upon the man in front of John. Her words angered the man in front of her, the ire in his eyes burning deep. "She wanted you to show her love in other ways, Otis," she pointed out, frowning in disapproval. "And it wasn't in gifts. She wanted you to put an effort into her. She wanted to see you pick yourself up and become something more than just a cowardly thief."

Otis slammed his elbow into John's stomach and soared for Julia, something sharp gleaming in his hand. Sherlock felt that spark of  _something_ within his chest; it was the same  _something_  he had felt that night he had shielded her from the explosion, as well as the evening he had watched Zielinski point his gun at her and fire. In a flourish of aggression, both John and Sherlock sprung into action that instant, the sleuth tearing him away from her before he could grab her, latching onto his arm and gracefully wrapping it behind his back. Cobb's wrist audibly popped as it was pressed further and further up his back, the man wailing as the detective pressed him face-first into the hot surface of the boiler tank. John had pulled Julia away at a safe distance, the two standing there with their bodies turned toward one another.

"Sherlock, you're hurting him!" the rosette cried.

Cocking his head, his eyes chewed into the back of the criminal's greasy head. "Really? I don't think I'm hurting him  _enough_ ," he responded chloerically, curling his lips as he proceeded until he managed to snap something within the man's hand. Cobb howled, writhing beneath Holmes' heavy body as he leaned forward into him. Finally, he allowed the criminal to rest and released him, stepping away as the officers made their appearance. Lestrade gawked over at the man whimpering and cradling his limp wrist in the corner, and then toward the painting that he began to pick up. The charred painting was handed to the inspector. "I believe you lost these a while ago."

Sherlock then turned to John and Julia, nodding. The rosette was silently creeping closer to the man, no longer fearing him now that she was surrounded by officers with guns. "Julia," John urged as he headed for the staircase. Similarly to a pokey child, she scampered after them, catching up with her partners. As soon as the two had found their place ahead of him, Sherlock was just about to head up to the surface, when suddenly Otis let out a call.

"Hey, lass." Julia hovered, inches from Sherlock as they stood there waiting for his message. "Tell Darlene she was right!" He offered a bloodied, tearful grin as the officers made to grab him, and suddenly the room was on fire and the rosette had witnessed the few seconds that it had taken the man to bring the exact shard of glass he had threatened her with to his wrist. As quickly as possible, the sleuth forced her up the stairs, the sound of the scene playing out below seeping up through the floorboards.

Julia stumbled up into the den and stopped in front of him; Sherlock could practically smell the fear coming off of her. His hand instinctively travelled to the warmth of her arm and he leaned over her shoulder. "Keep moving," he murmured, momentarily distracted by the aroma of jasmine. "We're in the way of emergency personnel."

The young woman nodded and made for the kitchen as quickly as possible. She bolted past John, startling him in his skin, before he too followed out with haste. When the detective made it outside, the young woman was bent over by the withering front garden, the doctor holding her hair back as she upchucked those two coffees she had had. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, glancing off toward the officers who were chuckling to themselves. Clearing his throat, the sleuth strolled over and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "She did not see him," he stated softly. "Did she?"

Julia gagged in response, the two glancing over at her. "I'm not entirely sure," the doctor responded, furrowing his brows. "Either way, she is still being ill in his garden, so we can assume that she did not enjoy his performance."

Holmes hummed and glanced over at the woman as she wiped her mouth. "You act as if he slit his throat rather than his wrists. At least it wasn't as messy as the spray from a jugular."

Turning green once again, she covered her mouth and gulped, turning away from the detective once more as she held down the bile that was left in her belly. John cringed, crooning softly and attempting to get her to calm down. Her body hitched again and he turned outward, looking away as she vomited once more. "Can we get some water over here?!" he called.

"Not good?" he inquired, taking it that his attempt to help the girl relax did not help. He wasn't the best at those types of things. That's why he had John around. At times he couldn't even be bothered to comfort someone in their time of need; it took up too much of his valuable time, but then again, so did a sobbing, emotional child or a hysteric husband. It was always a constant inner struggle for Sherlock, especially so when it came to this woman in particular.

One of the analysts approached quickly with an unopened bottle of water, handing it to John Watson in order to pass it to the rosette. She sipped at the bottle carefully, taking deep breaths while they walked her in the opposite direction of the paramedics as they wheeled Cobb's unconscious body out. It was time for them to leave; they needn't wait for Lestrade anymore. They had what they needed, now it was their turn to take it easy for the day. They strolled down along the drive, John and Julia trailing behind as the woman recomposed herself, reaching into her purse in order to retrieve a stick of that soft cherry gum she had been chewing earlier. Their small-talk buzzed in the back of his skull, keeping his mind occupied as he stared straight ahead. Cobb would most likely be dead by time he made it to the hospital. Darlene would be crushed, as would his brother, but it was how life went and Sherlock had no sympathy for the man. He had fallen at his own hand.

"That was quite exciting," Julia sighed as the three all fell into step, in order from shortest to tallest.

"And solved just before lunch, although I'm sure  _you're_  no longer hungry," the doctor remarked, chuckling at the end as his arm brushed her own. The young woman let out a soft hum of amusement, moving to check her phone with her char-stained fingertips.

"Still speaking to Elliot, I see?" Sherlock took note, knowing that the young man was surely messaging her at this time.

Offering a stern glance, John silently ordered him to shut up. "Yes, I am," Julia responded indifferently. "He wants to meet up on his lunch break again."

"You two seem awfully fond of one another," the detective prodded once again. He had a tendency to stick his nose where it didn't belong, although he knew that Julia would forgive him. She always did. "Is this man the object of your affections? Finally going to tie the knot?"

"Oh, we've been seeing each other for a little while now," she shot back, arching one of her auburn brows. Just as he had expected, sassy as ever.

John perked up, the group turning the corner and travelling up onto the sidewalk. "Oh, so you two are an item now?" he teased. "When should we expect grandchildren?"

"Oh, don't be silly John," she laughed, giving the man a shove.  _Grandchildren_? That made absolutely zero sense. They wouldn't stay together for too long: he would grow bored of her or uncomfortable with her working in the force with the two of them, and would surely flee. Besides, the term did not fit at all. Sherlock wasn't even old enough to be her father. The idea of the two redheads breeding caused his head to reel. He disliked humans, but he hated children most. They got on his nerves with their babbling and idiotic sense of invulnerability that tended to get them in messes they could not get out of. Swallowing back the words that had formed themselves on his tongue, they walked from there on, Julia getting a call about halfway to the nearest entrance into the tube. It was Mrs. Hudson, by the sounds of it. Sherlock took the time to speak over the rosette as she went through the works of formalities. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. How's the crossword coming along?"

"She says that she's stuck on a seven letter word. The definition is ' _a variety of wine grape grown and developed especially in Germany and Austria'_."

"Riesling, r-i-e-s-l-i-n-g," the detective spelled as they approached the entrance to the underground. The woman was always working on simple-minded little word games. Sherlock did not quite understand the enjoyment she had while doing so, but he suspected that it kept those with small brains quite sharp and entertained, by their definition.

"Never would have guessed that. It's a dreadful form of wine," John commented. He pursing his lips, although Holmes could still remember Sarah mentioning that she enjoyed it.

Julia turned the phone away from her mouth. "My father always drank the stuff," she added. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. No wonder the man had anger issues. They finally approached the entrance, joining a few folks in their trip downstairs. Straightening up, he pushed through a crowd of people in order to get to the steps they needed to take, travelling quickly. He could hear her voice coming from over his shoulder. It was busy and almost chaotic with how many people were about that morning. Perhaps it was because it was a Thursday? To-and-from work crowds maybe, and with the holidays coming up, it made sense that more people would be out shopping. "What? No, we're in the underground. We're going to take it into town and then we'll be home soon." John busied himself with pulling out their day travel cards while the detective fell into the lead.

"I love you too, talk soon," she sighed, ending the call there. Even from within a chattering, buzzing crowd he could pick out her voice. "John, wait up!"

The older man turned and searched for her for a moment. "Julia?" No reply. The two stopped dead in the stream of people, scanning around for her head of red hair. There was a brief moment where the sleuth fought his own instinct to simply allow her to catch up later, seeing as Elliot was the one she was going to see afterwards, but he thought better of it. She was not used to London's underground setup, and loads of nasty people could be snooping about. Sherlock and John came to the conclusion that they must search for the young woman themselves. It took them a little while before the detective suddenly picked her voice out once more.

"I'm so glad we ran into each other!" Ran into  _who_? At first he suspected that it was Idiot Francis, but then he heard someone answer-- it was an entirely different voice, one that he did not recognise.

"Me too," the invisible man replied. Mid-thirties, similar to Julia. Almost American, yet not quite. He couldn't place it at first, but then he identified it as something close to Irish. Sherlock's eyes found her back and he pressed through the crowd. "I didn't think I would hear from you. How has your aunt been?"

"She's been alright, I suppose. Hey, I have to run, but do you mind if I could get your number?"

"Oh, where are you heading?" queried the man, avoiding her question and asking his own.

They were to his left, the rosette facing toward the east end of the station. "Back into town. I'm actually lost." She was shy around him, most likely tucking some hair behind her ear the way she did when she was speaking to any man. She knew she was beautiful but never flaunted it, instead taking on a shy demeanour under roaming eyes.

"Lost? You're alone then," he remarked. He was worried, yet not quite putting his one-hundred percent attention into the matter. Perhaps he couldn't care less.

Julia was quick to tell the truth. "Oh! No, I was actually just on the outskirts for business. I have never taken the tube before. My partners are around here somewhere."

"Should I help you find them?"

Sherlock could just make out the man, dressed in a sharp-looking dove-gray blazer with matching pants, equipped with a darker vest of the same shade. Beneath he sported a pale carribean blue dress shirt, freshly pressed with a traditionally starched collar. His wallet and phone were in his side pocket where his hand was stuffed inside, his tie neatly tucked into his pantline in order to keep it comfortably taut against his breast. He was the same height as Julia, which is why her hourglass frame barely covered him up. Two eyes the colour of pitch stared at her with feigned interest. Who was this man and why had she never mentioned him before? By the time Sherlock had reached her, he had said goodbye, wishing her luck.

The young woman turned to Sherlock, taking in his arched-brow expression, John quickly coming up behind him, just as he always did. "Who was that man?" he asked immediately.

"Oh, just Jim. He's someone I met when I was out with Elliot," she replied. "He's very polite and kind. I think you two would get along well!"

He eyed her suspiciously, glancing up to see that the man was no longer in sight. "Well, no time to dawdle you two. We're going to miss our train!" John's remark drew them from their moment of tense confusion. Sherlock took her by the arm and guided her ahead of him, staring off over his shoulder for a moment longer before he, too, turned and headed for the platform. Once they had reached their respective turnstiles, they passed through with no trouble, the harsh beeping signalling their passes were accepted. The trio then took the shortest route to the subway train, John stopping the doors from shutting and letting his friends on first before they all slipped inside. They were eyed by the public, some whispering to one another about who they were and whether they were the people from the media. Sherlock enjoyed being recognised, but being stared at was an entirely different thing.

Julia immediately offered John the only open seat left and stood next to Sherlock in the tightly-packed space. Her head remained lowered, eyes upon her phone as she stood only a few inches away. He could see her screen from there, reading a few messages between she and her newly-proclaimed boyfriend. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed within his chest. "You should wash your hands," he murmured quietly, watching as her face turned up toward his. She simpered softly and shrugged. Clearly she was indifferent about it. What an odd thing for a clean woman such as herself. Sherlock felt the car shift beneath him, his grip tightening on the handle. "How long do you intend to keep them dirty? If you're going to see Idiot--"

"Elliot," Julia quickly cut in, eyes remaining upon her phone.

"Is that not what I said?" he replied sternly to her snarky remark. "Anyway, if you're going to see him, you should at least try and clean yourself up." He could feel John's eyes as he watched their little volley, silently judging them within his silly little head. He shot the man a glance, only for him to look away just in time, attempting to appear innocent. The train lurched to a stop and she suddenly stumbled forward, a hand landing upon his chest in order to steady herself. Sherlock flinched and she drew back as quickly as possible, as if the texture of his coat had burnt her.

The doctor, who was sitting comfortably in his seat between a rather large gentleman and a woman wearing a pale shade of lavender, snickered softly. "I suppose you need to earn your sea-legs, Julia," he remarked. "I can still switch places with you if you'd like.."

Her head shook, putting her phone away for a moment. "No need, John. We need you to rest your leg, so it's only natural that you take the seat."

The train came to a stop and their heads turned up. Two more to go. Sherlock allowed a few people to move by, his hand naturally coming to find the small of her back as he scooched her out of the way. Julia's head ducked and she moved in tandem with the detective until they had a bit more room, thankfully giving them some air to breathe as she took the second handle to his left. Her fingers held on for dear life as the train started back up, her wide verdigris set washing over the faces and the posters, as well as the glowing map up on the screen. A voice came over the speakers yet again. " _Next stop, city central._ " Her foot tapped along with the song playing through the radio, enjoying her first trip on the subway. He would tell that she was somewhat hesitant still, but she would surely adjust. Sherlock found his eyes washing over her until they found her face, the young woman in the middle of reaching back to unpin her hair when her own set met his own.

She smiled softly. He looked away.

Two more trips and they were back in the heart of the busy metropolis. From the stairs she said goodbye to them, offering John a hug and a peck on the cheek, and then moving to Sherlock, who she simply embraced, her arms wrapping around his sore neck and holding him close. "Try not to get yourselves kidnapped or murdered while I'm gone," she hummed, offering a jesting smile. The girl took a few steps back, beginning to turn away. "And call me if something comes up." Waving a lightly-clawed hand up into the air, she saluted them goodbye and strutted off, her heels clicking against the concrete.

The pair then crossed through traffic, John being narrowly missed by one of the double-decker buses, the driver bellowing out his cracked window as he did so. The man waved and shouted an apology back, gesturing toward Sherlock as he strolled forward, the brisk wind billowing through his fleece coat. The sleuth was growing wary from all of the older man's glances and looks. "So, are you going to tell me why you keep staring?" he quizzed, hearing the patter of shoes as the shorter man caught up with him and they fell into step with one another. "You haven't taken your eyes off of me since we were back at Cobb's."

"Isn't it obvious, Sherlock?" the man chuckled, offering a jesting look. Sherlock shot him a heavy slant. His lip curled up in a mischievous manner, giving away his intent to tease and mock. What he was referring to though, was unclear. The detective looked up across the street, giving a wave to one of the older ladies that were usually having tea out front of the Lucky Star. The wind cut into the two as they travelled back in the direction of Baker Street.

"What?" he demanded. Beat. " _Julia_?"

With a nod, he continued to speak in a matter-of-fact manner. "I never thought of you to be the jealous type, especially when it comes to women."

Sherlock grimaced. "Jealousy? Oh,  _please_ , John. You do know who you're speaking to here?"

"I know that I am talking to a man who does not quite understand how his actions look toward others. It's because of how you're constantly looking over her shoulder to read her messages, and how you boss her around when it comes to that boy as if you're her father..."

"She is merely my partner and nothing more, John. I am simply making sure that she keeps herself on track," dismissed the sleuth, giving a toss of his brunette curls as he shot a look over his shoulder at a passing car. He could have sworn he had heard the distinct sound of a camera. "If she is to work alongside of me, she needs to be one-hundred percent devoted to the case rather than getting caught up in foolish romantic endeavours!" Sherlock's eyes caught sight of something yellow in the front window of a shop, eyeing how a rather frail-looking woman was putting up a tacky-gold Christmas tree in her window. How ugly. "I treat her no different than I would Molly or Mrs. Hudson."

John's eyes pinched and he offered a doubtful shake of his head. "Not quite," he countered. "You see, you always need to know where she is, always seem to have a hand on her when you two are in close proximity. With Molly, you rarely even look in her direction. I haven't seen you watch someone so intently, either, unless you're deducing."

"I am always deducing John, now stop with this foolish banter. What is your point?"

John tilted his head. "Oh, nothing," he dismissed innocently, leaving him with that heavy bit of information to roll around within his head. Was he too friendly with Julia? They were close, just as he and John. There was nothing more to it. Putting that out of his mind, the detective palmed his phone that laid within his satin-lined pocket. Silence reigned supreme as they walked together, snowflakes gently falling from the sky in little white flakes, hardly interesting in comparison to the large ones that had fallen the first day of tempest of the season. Sherlock swallowed heavy in his throat as a shiver ran through him, the doctor to his left bringing his bare hands to his mouth and breathing out a hot puff of air along his fingers.

"Oh, that dress is still there," John suddenly piped up as they neared the shop they had stopped in front of nearly eleven days ago. Their pace slowed and Sherlock eyed the nearly black material. It reminded him of an emerald lake, so deep that he could drown in it. Sort of a morbid comparison since the evening back at the factory. "I thought someone would have purchased it by now." His eyes traced the shape of how it fit the model's derivative frame, wondering if perhaps Julia would look interesting within its confines, wrapped in the cloth the colour of the Loch. John's head turned in unison with his own and they both simultaneous fabricated the same thought.

"You don't suppose that we should..." the detective suggested, trailing off as they were suddenly at a crossroads. Rent was due at the end of the month and had been short beforehand as well, which John would certainly feel the need to pay if they were tardy again with the requested sum. The detective's head rose and he looked upon the dress-adorning mannequin once more.

John shook his head and turned himself around, and suddenly Sherlock's defiance grew stronger. Not even half a block down the street from the boutique and he wheeled around, earning a shout from a rather confused John Watson. Whipping off his scarf, he shoved it back into the man's hands, stepped up under the small shelter from the oncoming snow and opened the door. He was immediately assaulted by the gleam off of the white marble floors, a plethora of bright colours swimming within his eyes. The detective sauntered in, greeted by the sound of a classic jingling doorbell, alerting the staff to his presence. A slim woman with hair the colour of titanium approached him. She was in her late sixties, yet still dressed her near bone-thin frame in a pencil skirt and spotted blouse, multiple sterling bracelets giving away her adoration for shiny objects, much like a mockingbird. Her nose was sharp, her wrinkles horribly defined by caked makeup and blush. The clerk wore a shade of fuchsia lipstick that Sherlock found hardly looked attractive on any one, let alone a primped-up hag. The door chimed behind him, signifying that John had entered.

"Is there anything I can help you find today, sir?" she inquired, her posh accent slightly off-putting as she offered a denture-filled smile. She had been smoking since she was twenty-three, perhaps twenty-four, and she wore enough vanilla essence on her to choke a horse. A few young ladies who had been folding new shipments near the back of the little boutique were giggling and gushing over him. Sherlock's eyes returned to the woman in front of him.

"Nothing today, ma'am," John interjected, speaking sternly. "My friend here has just wandered into the wrong store--"

"Yes! I was wondering if you still had that green dress in the window up for sale," he answered quickly, not even bothering to acknowledge John as he hissed under his breath at him.

The woman's eyes lit up in surprise, eyeing him up and down. "Oh! Late shopping for the missus?"

"You can see right through me," he teased, gesturing toward her with a finger, putting on the staunchest facade he could in order to sell it to the woman. "I've just been working up a storm lately, so I haven't had the time to scrounge around for possible gifts until now."

"Well, luckily we have one left. You're lucky to have come in just now," she bubbled, her voice rasping softly in her throat as she chuckled. "Allow me to go retrieve it for you, mister...?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together. " _Holmes_ , love. There's no need! I'll take it." His hand reached into his pocket, the other carefully tilting behind his back in order to gesture for John's wallet. He had forgotten his own at home, and frankly, never carried money with him. Too many pickpockets in London-- Sherlock, of all people, was an expert at how easy it was to jack one's personal belongings straight from their own satchel or purse. The woman disappeared into the back, one of the younger sales associates coming to the glamorous counter.

Blue eyes, surgery on her nose and chest, in her late twenties. She was short and almost stubby, but wore rather spiffy items in order to cover that up. Her earrings reflected the awfully hot golden lights overhead. He offered a half smile and a wink, only to be turned around by John, who was still fuming. "Are you mad?" he whispered harshly. "Lestrade  _just_  paid us and you promised Mrs. Hudson that you would pay her in cash, upfront by the end of the weekend!"

"Here we are, darling!" The hag returned, the dress folded neatly within one of their boxes. The paper was pink and veined with gold foil, giving it a sort of pastel look. "Might I ask what colour her eyes are?"

"They're a lovely shade of turquoise. I figured the colour would also compliment her hair," Sherlock replied in his usual honeyed-tongue, coating each work with as much over-exaggerated fondness for his supposed significant other. However good of an actor he was, he still had not been handed John's wallet, which only irked him. "She's a redhead, you see."

"Sherlock--"

"How wonderful..." trailed the older woman, short mascara-caked lashes fluttering in a sort of moony fashion. She carefully slipped one of their business cards inside. "Would you like us to wrap it for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, no need," he declined ever so politely. "I can wrap it myself at home, I'm sure."

"That will come to £636.72," the blonde at the register announced. John nearly choked from where he stood behind him, laughing drily to a point where the clerks were beginning to stare. The man could have at least been a bit quieter in his own revelations, however, Watson wasn't really one to his his displeasure. "Cash or credit?"

"Cash," he replied. A wicked grin laced his lips as the man sighed the heaviest he had heard in quite some time, and carefully snuck him his wallet. Miming that he had pulled his own from his pocket, he opened the wallet and eyed the money inside that they had been collecting throughout the week. The detective pulled out £650.00 exactly and then handed it across the counter, the huge impact that the wallet had taken physically hurting the older gentleman he had his back to. The payment was over and he buttered them all up a bit more before he was offered a pretty little bag to carry it in.

"Merry Christmas, ladies!" he called over his shoulder as they left. The door shut behind them with a cheerful chime and Sherlock's grin melted away, his lips curling. "You could hardly breathe in there." 

John quickly followed after him, blown away by the fifteen minutes he had spent inside the stuffy shop, simply thanking them for their help. "Sherlock, when I mentioned that the dress was still for sale..." he trailed, and then he raised his voice, drawing the attention of a few passersby. "I did not mean for you to  _purchase it!_ "

"Oh, come, Watson," the detective scoffed, indifferent to the massive amount of money that he had just spent. Surely his partner would understand. "It is nearly Christmas after all."

"What about  _Mrs_.  _Hudson_?!" John seethed.

Holmes tutted, glancing over at his friend. He tried his best to pull the same pleasantries with his partner. Obviously he would be able to see right through it, knowing that it was merely an impulse-buy, but he would learn to forgive him. Everybody did sooner or later. "She'll understand. After all, we were simply thinking of her wonderful niece."

"No, no!  _You_  were the one thinking of her niece," John insisted, shaking his head violently from side to side. "Mrs. Hudson will need to collect  _something--_ "

"Then give her what is left over," Sherlock derided once more, the two rounding the corner and then cutting quickly across the street. It seemed as though John was now so baffled that he was having a hard time keeping up with the sleuth.

"Sherlock!"

 "She'll understand!"


	14. An Early Wakeup Call

❧

_"A Christmas party?" Sherlock had looked up from his test tubes and his microscope, the kitchen dimly lit by the light upon the slide he had been examining. John curiously peeked over at the woman, settled in the detective's chair while he was busy being distracted by his study of human hair follicles after death. The rosette did not even ask where he had gotten a patch of scalp from, for she already knew the answer. Sheepish, she adjusted in the leather seat, legs curled inward as she held her phone in one hand, her tea steaming upon the window sill, fogging it's surface. Snow fell fervorously outside. The doctor twisted around to exchange a look with his flatmate._

_Chewing at her bottom lip, she picked at her thumbnail. "Well, Elliot mentioned something along the lines of a dinner somewhere downtown, and he invited you and John along," she explained carefully, trying to tread lightly around the subject of her significant other. Her eyes drifted off to the side, her attention travelling to her pinky, which she bent at an awkward angle. "It will be a formal event: we'll all be dressing up nicely, although I'm sure neither of you will have trouble with that. Molly will be there, and he even mentioned that John could bring Sarah with him, if he wanted to. He wants to try and get to know you guys better..."_

_Julia tucked some hair behind her ear and glanced off toward the two men, taking note of Sherlock's wrinkled nose and John's arched brow. Perhaps they hadn't understood her point? Suddenly, the detective turned and went back to examining his follicles. Whatever he found interesting about them was beyond her. Sherlock had a strange mind. "How dull. Here I thought you would actually be inviting us to something more fun, Julia."_

_"Well, that's the thing. After the dinner, they wanted somewhere big enough to host a little gathering sort of thing behind closed doors. You know, for presents and that sort of thing..." she continued, growing nervous. Laughing softly, she attempted to lighten the mood, although couldn't deny how she was beginning to grow bothered beneath John's gaze. "And when we were talking about it over lunch with Molly and Elliot, I may... have..."_

_"You offered up our flat?" the detective finished, glancing over his shoulder. Sherlock's words hung in the air, a cold drop of fear crawling down her spine. She swallowed thick within her throat, preparing to be scorned for doing such a thing without Sherlock's permission. She was ready for whatever he had to throw at her, about how dumb she was, or whatever he felt like spewing; however, Julia found that John was the one to respond._

_"Well, I don't see why not," he piped up, both she and Sherlock both simultaneously uttering the word 'what?' in response. Her hopes grew high and she straightened up from where she had sank back into her friend's seat, staring at John with gleaming turquoise eyes. "When was the last time we dressed up and went out, Sherlock?"_

_"For me, that is every day, John," muttered the detective, adjusting the scope as he picked up the tweezers settled at his side._

_"You know what I mean. Besides, it would be good for us to liven our holidays up instead of sitting around eating three-day-old pie and then going to bed."_

_"I thought you enjoyed it."_

_"Changing things up will_ definitely _not kill you."_

_"It could," Sherlock pointed out, eyes slanting in their direction for a moment._

❧

Julia pulled herself out of her sleep when she felt a hand upon her shoulder, nudging her awake. As she came-to, she realised just how exhausted she had been lately, this admittedly being the first time she had gotten proper rest since the evening at the fish factory. The flat was chilly, the man hanging over her a beacon of warmth as she felt his thick coat being laid over her. Nestling in, she sighed into the fabric, breathing Sherlock's familiar scent. She could see why the gentleman wore the coat so often; it was heavy and well-insulated, engulfing her slender body completely. Who needed a blanket? She slowly began to drift back into a drowsy stupor, sighing the gentleman's name. The flat was dreary without the lamp light or the glow from the fireplace, the blue light of day drifting in through the windows. The sun was slowly rising. "Sherlock," she murmured softly, eyes remaining glued shut.

"Yes?" His voice was low, the deep bass tone resounding within the cool flat's dusty air. He sounded tired.

"Thank you." There was a gentle beat as she was unsure whether he had answered or not, sinking deeper into her own dreamscape. Her small form curled into itself, feeling safe while wrapped in the wool and satin of his coat. Within the span of an hour, the dreary english light eventually cross-faded, the room that had once been washed in a very faint greyish blue tint now bathed in rays of soft tangerine and honey. Particles of dust danced within its watery shafts the brighter it grew, becoming as dazzling as lightning bugs, slowly but surely drifting within the still air of 221B. Julia was not aware of her surroundings, enjoying the delicious comfort of her own sleep until suddenly she was jolted awake by the sound of the phone ringing. She bolted upright and blindly looked around the room, finding that she was the only being residing there at the time. Had Sherlock gone to bed? Quickly bunching the coat as if it were a towel she had grabbed while stepping out of the shower, she snatched the receiver and picked it up.

What was she supposed to say? What was it that Sherlock always said?

"Holmes residence," she spoke softly into the phone.

There was the sound of a hitching sob, and then, "Julia? Is that you, darling?"

The rosette froze, dropping the coat to the floor. "M-Mother?" she stammered. She had so many questions. Who had given her this number? How was she calling her all the way from Glasgow? Was she aware of the charge? Her head felt light as she glanced around the flat, searching for some sort of sign that she was alone. The young woman brought her fingers to her lips, now coming to stand in the middle of the carpet. Her feet were bare, her socks and boots at the door. Her hair was an absolute mess, although she knew her mother could not see her.

"Oh, thank goodness," her mother breathed through the speaker. "You just suddenly disappeared. We were so worried because Max wouldn't answer our calls. She kept telling us that you had made it to London, however, she never explain to us where. You have no idea how much sleep we've all lost. Even Velvet is missing you."

Julia tried to imagine their irish setter mix waiting at the door of the spare bedroom, crying and scratching for her. Her arms slowly wrapped around herself, suddenly aware of how cold the apartment was. "I-I meant to call, but... things got a bit busy here." No, she had meant to completely isolate herself from her family for as long as possible. Guilt began to chew her up. "I have a job, sort of, and aunt Martha has been nothing but hospitable."

Her mother sniffled. "Oh, that's good to hear," she murmured softly. She could see her as plain as day, her blonde hair swept up in its typical brown clip, her robe dangling open and her pyjamas a wrinkled mess. "So, you... enjoy living there?"

Swallowing gently, she glanced to the side, fiddling with one of her aunt's smooth pearl earrings. "It's... been touch and go. I mean, the neighbours are a little...  _odd_. I'm not necessarily getting paid either."

"Do you need us to send you some money?" her mother suddenly offered, her voice strained with worry. It was totally different in comparison to how dry and bitter she had been last she had spoken to her. Crossing the floor, she rounded the little sitting area and her feet met the hard-floor between the kitchen and the den.

"Oh, no mum. It's alright, really! I'm doing just fine... my supervisor keeps me busy," Julia quickly explained. "It's a taxing job, but I've adjusted and I'm finding it quite to my liking. The people I'm working with are the best." She was lying through her teeth. Sherlock could be quite the royal prick. "You really shouldn't worry. Auntie is very hospitable."

Her mother hummed in thought on the other end. She clearly wasn't very inclined to accept that her sister was a force of good. "Well, so long as you are comfortable, I suppose..."

"Mum, don't start," she warned, frowning. There was a moment of wordless tension before a deep sigh escaped both of them.

"You sound different."

Those three words caused her heart to flutter. She sounded different? "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she asked, studying the wood floors beneath her. Pacing back toward the living room, she peered out the window, coming to unpin her hair and allow it to fall in a mass of auburn tangles.

"You just sound more confident, my dear," her mother answered softly, the sound of more oncoming tears creeping up within the woman's throat. Julia pent over to pick up Sherlock's coat, allowing it to drape over her folded arm.

A yawn passed her lips. "Is pa awake?" the rosette inquired.

"He's still asleep... I suppose that I did not mind the time. Did I wake you?"

"It's okay mum, you don't have to worry," Julia dismissed, shaking her head. "I needed to get up anyway. I usually start my days early." Brushing the fleece off, she raised her shoulder, sandwiched the phone between it and her cheek. "How has he been?"

"Your father has only just recently been able to rest," her mother replied sullenly. "He's been worrying about you and Blair both, what with her off to University and all."

Right, her younger sister had just started her schooling. She hadn't even thought about Blair, if she were being honest. The poor girl had been so nervous and Julia had promised to keep in touch with her, yet she had just completely up and disappeared without another thought. "Is she home for the holidays?" Julia inquired once more, asking more questions than answering.

"She has been since the beginning of this week, actually." Her mother now sounded a bit more relaxed, the familiar sound of tea cups clinking signifying that she was making herself a cuppa.

"How is she fairing?"

"She was happy to be home," her mother remarked, "and was gushing with stories to tell. It's too bad you weren't around to see her... she told me how she missed you." Julia felt her throat tighten at the thought of her sister's disappointment. Her guilt grew legs and began to crawl up her back. "We did not tell her of your absence until recently. She surely would have come home if she had found out."

Fidgeting with the button upon her shirt, the rosette switched the phone over to a different ear. "Did she meet anybody while she was there?" asked the ginger, chewing at her bottom lip.

"None that she has mentioned," the woman sighed. She could hear her shaking her head. Blair had always been the prettier of the two, which gave the nineteen-year-old a fighting chance at being married before her. Although she had, at times, found herself to be jealous, she had always encouraged her to speak to men and show interest. "How about yourself? You've made friends, have you not? Do you work in an office?"

"Oh, I..." Julia trailed off, eyes drifting toward the now scantily dressed wall and the ugly yellow smiley face that Sherlock had spray painted long before she had arrived. They really needed to cover that up. "Sort of, I suppose. I-I actually work with... the neighbours."

"Your neighbours?" echoed her mother, perplexed.

"Yes.." she intoned. Julia frowned gently. "How did you get this number?"

"You were in the paper, darling!" Her mind reeled, forgetting that she had completely dismissed her question. The paper? What exactly had she  _read_? Judging by how she wasn't demanding she come home, it must have been something light that hadn't mentioned the explosion or the near-drowning. "I would have thought they would at least pay you though. I never would have guessed that my eldest daughter, too squeamish to even have her shots at times, would be working in forensics!"

The rosette laughed nervously. "Well, I sort of just fell into the thing... I never thought of myself as the type of person either, but, it's been quite interesting I suppose. I don't  _hate_  it."

"Just... promise your mother that you'll be careful? It isn't the safest occupation, dear."

"Oh mum. I promise, I'm okay. Dr Watson and Mr. Holmes are taking good care of me."

"I would hope so," she sighed. "Your father and I were dreadfully mortified to hear that you had been working in that field. We had thought you had perhaps gone mad! I mean, dealing with criminals and, not to mention, other men, is difficult for such a young woman like yourself. I mean, wouldn't you rather to work in fashion or photojournalism? You could have even tried to make your mark in piano--"

Julia sighed into the phone and paced back around, attempting to wander into the kitchen, when suddenly someone emerged from the dim hallway. Sherlock's hair was perfect and ruggedly curly as always, his pale skin reflecting the light like fresh now. His form was smartly clothed in dark colours, as always, his black button-up tied together with his simple black blazer. His eyes cut into her with a look of question. "Who are you talking to?" he asked.

"My mother," she whispered, trying to be as quiet as she could so as not to have the woman grow hysterical. She did not need her mother knowing that she had spent the night next door rather than in her respective bed. Her mother would go insane, and Julia really did not want to have to deal with answering her series of questions.

"Your mother? Could she not have called your cell phone?"

"Who is that?" Her mother asked almost seconds later. Julia was baffled. She could hear them? She was suddenly caught between a rock and a hard place.

Her eyes shut and she bit back a groan. "Sherlock Holmes, mother..."

"Good morning, Mrs. Fuller," the detective piped up, the two of them stepping into the kitchen in order to start some tea. He brushed by her in order to get to the cupboard, easily reaching what he needed from above her head. She began to fill the kettle.

"The man from the papers, you mean?" her mother quizzed, gasping softly. She was beginning to think, and assume, and that was a bad sign. The rosette cringed as she set the object down upon the burner and allowed it to light. "He's a handsome fellow, isn't he?"

Julia's ears burned, knowing fully well that the detective would be able to hear her voice through the speaker pressed to her ear, regardless of how low the volume was. "Mum, please--"

"What is he doing at your aunt's this early?"

Sighing, she pulled out the raisin bread from its usual spot within its box, and quietly placed the cinnamon-swirled goodness into the toaster. She placed the lever at number four, the numeral painted in grey paint upon the plastic, and then paused. "I'm... not at aunt Martha's," Julia finally admitted, turning and leaning against the counter. She heard silence on the other end of the phone for a moment before her mother spoke once again.

"You slept  _overnight_?"

"Yes mother," she replied pointedly. "I merely dozed off and ended up falling asleep in one of their chairs. Sherlock does not mind."

The detective was filling a bowl full of cereal. "Dozed off is an understatement."

Julia hissed for him to be quiet. "Julia, is there something you wish to tell me?" She froze. Her mother's question hung in the air. "You seem mighty friendly toward this Sherlock Holmes fellow. Is there something more you wish to share?"

"What? Sherlock and I--" she sputtered. She watched as his head turned, glancing up from where he sat at the small sitting table in the middle of the kitchen. Her bread popped up behind her and she turned, shooting him a dirty look. "No, mum. That's ridiculous: Sherlock and I merely work together. It's strictly professional and it's nothing more." As she spoke these words, she felt her spine prickle under his arctic gaze. Julia took a deep breath and finally retrieved her toast, reaching up in order to grab herself a plate. Sliding up onto her tiptoes, she placed the bread upon the china before crossing her arms. "But... I  _am_  in a relationship."

"Julia!" her mother chirruped. "My  _goodness_  girl, well then, tell me about him! What's he like?"

A smile laced her lips as she recalled Elliot's boyish charm, although attempting to avoid certain topics, such as how they met in a morgue. "His name is Elliot Francis. He works as a scientist, and he's the sweetest man you will ever meet. I'm sure you'd love him."

"Who introduced you two?"

She hummed, glancing up toward the ceiling. "I suppose Sherlock did, in a way. We were just leaving the lab when I ran into him. Of course, Mr. Holmes yelled at him and called him an idiot because he spilled coffee everywhere, including on me... He's clumsy, and sort of dorky, but in a cute way."

Her mother was choked up by the end of her short little monologue about her boyfriend. "Oh, I'm so proud! My dove finally found someone to make her happy."

Julia wanted to tell her mother that she had been happy before she had gotten with Elliot. She had been happy because she had been solving crimes, because she had been given somewhere to call home, where she could be herself, because she could fit in somewhere where she felt content. Picking up her plate, she drifted over to the table. "Don't run up the bill," muttered Sherlock. She offered a look of apology.

"Well mum, I really should get going. John is still asleep, so I don't want to be waking him up."

There was a pause. "Okay honey," her mother responded, the tone in her voice clawing Julia's heart to shreds. Despite how her mother drove her up the walls with how arrogant and set-in-her-ways she could be, she truly adored her. "I love you."

"I love you too. Tell Blair and pa that I miss them," Julia requested, smiling solemnly against the receiver. "And give Velvet a biscuit for me."

"I intend to," Mother Fuller confirmed. "Have a good day darling."

"You too, mum. Bye."

Click.  _Beep_. The young woman fell silent, listening to the sound of Sherlock eating his cereal so calmly as he sat across from her. Standing up, she pushed her chair out behind herself and wandered out into the den, although only managing to make it halfway. Her mother's crestfallen tone still rang within her ear and suddenly she found that her eyes were welling with tears. A sob lurched from her throat and she covered her mouth.

"Julie?" Sherlock's voice was laced with concern, drifting toward her ears.

"Oh, I'm.. I'm sorry," she hiccuped, unable to stop the tears. Julia was surprised when she heard the man follow in her footsteps, coming to stand just a little ways away and stopping himself there. "I just... I haven't spoken to her for more than a month now. My family has been afraid that I wouldn't come back, and..." The man was as silent as the grave, allowing her to speak. Wiping her eyes, she refused to cry any longer, sniffling. "I'm such a mess."

"You are a mess, correct. It is not attractive in the slightest," Sherlock pointed out bluntly. One of his hands found her back and she turned herself toward him, her rheumy eyes refusing to meet his clear blue set. Despite his barbed honesty, his words were gentle and comforting. Julia could not make sense of how it helped her relax, but so far he was successful. Perhaps it was how carefully he had placed his hands on her shoulders, or the way he stood there in front of her like a barrier, blocking out all the what-ifs with his presence, demanding that she see him instead of the anxiety-inducing troubles knocking about in her skull. "Which is why I want you to stop crying."

" _I love you_ " was what her mouth wanted to utter, but " _I love you_ " was such a dangerous mouthful of words in this moment. It was so dangerous that it could shatter the glass floor beneath them, so dangerous in the fact that it would give Sherlock the power to smite Julia to the ground, until she was nothing but a hollow husk; it was so dangerous that it could destroy her bond with Elliot, as well as the relationship that the detective and she had worked so hard on; it could destroy what they had so carefully built. To Sherlock, Julia knew, that she was not like Molly. He saw her as not only useful, but as a companion, similarly to how he saw John or her aunt. Some part of her wanted to say that it could be more, but that was the foolish girl that had chased after the man in those letters, and not the woman that now stood before the sociopath she knew today. Julia shut her eyes and wiped away the last of her tears, breaking from the detective's grasp. The words" _I love you_ " were impulsive and foolish to be said among friends. Sherlock did not have to tell her this in order for her to realise the truth.

Besides, she had Elliot. Sherlock was her friend and business partner, just as she told her mother. Nothing more.

"Thank you," she murmured, breaking from the detective's grip. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her lungs to expand and then sighed, returning the phone to its receiver. In a way, she was glad that she was going to be able to spend time over the holidays with other people, rather than simply sitting around, alone. "It's just hard, being away from my family during the holidays."

"I cannot relate. Besides, I've never understood the whole family aspect of the holidays. You saw how Mycroft was the day you met him," Sherlock replied, turning and disappearing back into the kitchen. "Would you like to just leave your toast out for John?"

Julia slumped into the detective's chair. "Sure, I don't see why not," she muttered, waving a hand. The sound of dishes being moved toward the sink genuinely surprised her. Sherlock was tidying up? The detective stepped into view, dusting his hands off in a vigorous fashion, before reaching down to her level and latching onto her wrists. She groaned in complaint as he forced her to her feet.

"Come, Miss Fuller," he coaxed sternly. "Go get yourself changed. We're going out." The detective stepped up behind her and pushed her forward, straight in the direction of the door. Out she went, stumbling into the landing and glancing over her shoulder as the egress was shut behind her. Julia frowned. Oh peachy, another one of Sherlock Holmes' great adventures!


	15. A Little Cafe In The Middle Of London

❧

Sauntering up the stairs, Julia headed for 221C and unlocked itsdoor, fumbling inside and taking her time in closing it. She needed to stay quiet, not wanting her aunt to wake up and ask her what she was doing out so late. Julia carefully snuck down to the spare bedroom and disappeared inside, finding her makeup bag and freshening herself up a bit, applying deodorant and perfume before struggling out of the clothes she had slept in all day. It didn't take her long to put on a simple pair of burgundy pants and a dark green sweater, tugging on a fresh pair of socks. Finally, the rosette grabbed her brush and ran it through her auburn hair until it looked decent enough, and in one swift movement, she pulled it up into a ponytail and twisted it, slipping her grandmother's pin through in order to hold it in place.

Returning to 221B, she came to the door to find that Sherlock was waiting upon the dark-stained floor, the carpet beneath his feet dated beyond modern day decor and beginning to turn off-white, the pink faded indefinitely. He held her coat and scarf within his one arm, and in the other hand, he carried her boots. The detective met her halfway, allowing her to step into her shoes and zip them up along the sides, before retrieving the other items. Julia struggled into her coat and scarf while following behind him, the man already beginning to head for the door. "Bart's?" she guessed.

"No," Sherlock replied simply, keeping his attention on the street as he opened the door for her. They stepped outside and the door to 221B was shut behind them.

"Oh... then, the station perhaps? Funny, I don't remember Lestrade calling last night."

The detective shook his head. "Nope, not there either."

They fell into step with one another, both shoving their hands into the pockets of their jackets. Julia furrowed her brows and frowned, racking her brain for possible ideas. She evidently came up with nothing. "Then where are we heading?"

"Obviously, Ms. Fuller, I figured that we could go have coffee," Sherlock disclosed, eyes washing over his surroundings. "But, if you are eager to visit crime scenes, we can change our plans."

Coffee? He wanted to go have  _coffee_? Of all things! Sherlock was actually capable of human activity. She nodded and reached into her pocket for her phone, only to find that it was absent. She must have left it back at 221B, although she could have sworn she had left it in her pocket. At first she wondered if she should ask Sherlock to wait while she went and retrieved it, but then Julia figured they would not be long. Perhaps Mr. Holmes would tire of her sooner than later so she needn't have to worry Elliot with her silence. "That sounds delightful, but I do have to wonder, why me of all people?" she queried. "Should we have invited John?"

"John was asleep at the time. Besides, isn't this what friends do?"

He was saying that as if he did not understand, which amused the young woman until she wondered if, perhaps, he was being serious. Julia remained silent and agreed, bobbing her auburn crown as they strolled along the street, heading for who-knows-where. The detective seemed to know the direction they were going in, so perhaps it was best to simply follow him. It was a challenge, trying to keep up with Holmes, seeing as he was the only one she could really focus her attention on. John was not present, meaning she could not walk at a decent speed that was to her liking— no, she had to keep up with Long-Legs Mcgee. At one point they found themselves needing to cross a busy intersection, and Sherlock simply darted out into traffic, grabbing hold of her wrist as he did so. They were brought to a stop by a crazy woman, angry that she had been stopped on her way to work. Sherlock argued that her recent divorce was no reason to take her anger out on pedestrians, which ended up both silencing her and baffling her all at once.

From there, Julia had found that her hand slipped from where she had been hold his arm, and was now laced with his own, holding on for dear life as they finally made it up onto the curb by barrelling through a massive flock of people. The shops were being infiltrated by swarms of late shoppers, attempting to get their last-minute presents bought before Christmas came. Julia had never seen such a hectic little city, nor was she used to feeling Sherlock's cold hand entwined with her own, which only added to how flushed her cheeks were as she struggled to keep up. They finally released one another, the man straightening out his coat as he weaved through the traffic of downtown. Where on earth were they heading? She had never been through this part of London before. "Is Christmas always like this around here?" Julia astonished.

"Worse. You can't even breathe some days, it gets so packed. There should be a law against this many idiots in one contained space!"

Julia chuckled. "You should talk to Lestrade then, see what he thinks of keeping all those officers after you plead your case."

Sherlock shot her an amused little glance, clearly proud that she was dragging the name of the police through the mud. She was beginning to catch on, becoming more and more in his favor. "The man never takes my advice," he replied, waving a hand about. "Donovan never believes that they need my help, when they so obviously do. And instead Lestrade trusts a bunch of sorry lummoxes who can do a fraction of the work I can do. I can have a case solved in one day, whereas it takes them a whole  _year_ , at best.  _I'm_  the reason they ever have any hope of solve cases to begin with."

They both split, stepping out of the way of a cyclist before welding together as they tangoed around a woman with a stroller. Sherlock's hands found her waist as he pushed her ahead of himself, apologizing to the young lady and glancing down at the child who screamed for attention. It was so cold, why wasn't he wearing a scarf or a hat? Finally, they stopped dead as Holmes latched onto the sash of her coat, tugging her to a standstill. Pivoting, she found that Sherlock had opened the door for her once more. They stepped inside of the little cafe and found themselves a spot, both letting out a huff as soon as they collided with their chairs. The carnelian-crowned woman frowned out at the streets. The waitress came around, her mouth opening, only to be cut off as Sherlock rambled out their order. "Black coffee, two sugars and a jasmine tea, plain. Thank you."

Her irish accent chimed cleverly in the silence. "Er, I'm deeply sorry sir, but we do not have any jasmine tea left. Is there anything I can substitute?"

Julia went to open her mouth, but the detective answered in her stead once more. "Do you not? Well, I suppose chai will have to do, one milk. Oh, and do be a dear and bring another one, in case you forget my own order." It took everything within her not to gape. Sherlock looked up from the menu as he shut it and handed it to the young woman. He was oblivious to her bewilderment. "Yes?"

"Favourite colour," she blurted.

"Pardon me?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, lips curling downward.

Julia repeated herself, curious as to what he would say. "My favourite colour. Tell me."

The detective leaned back and crossed one arm beneath his elbow, propping it up and silently scrutinising her. His clever gaze worked across her face. "Well, it all depends on the season. In autumn you tend to lean more toward deep purple and green, whereas in the warmer season you prefer pale blue and, at times, the right shade of yellow."

Julia beamed. "My birth year," she shot.

"1979."

"Star-sign?" she challenged.

"Taurus," mused the detective, arching a brow as he reached over and carefully arranged the jumbled jams by kind. "Such a cliche tidbit of information about someone. I've never understood the point of categorising certain persona types by certain designated constellations."

"Family pet."

"You've owned dogs your entire life, judging by the hair that was on your coat when we were first acquaintanced. Your mother prefers cats and so does your sister, but they've always compromised because a dog was what most likely brought your parents together."

"You're a bloody wizard," Julia breathed. "Wait! My lucky number?"

"Eight. Seven is too common."

"Oh my god, Sherlock!" A laugh escaped her, her lips parted in utter surprise. The svelte man chuckled for the first time, visibly proud that he could create such a reaction in her. "You are positively  _amazing_!"

"Naturally," he agreed. Finally, after finishing his pile of marmalade tubs, he folded his hands together upon the surface of the table and leaned forward slightly. "Now, you do me."

Her eyes widened, blinking vigorously. Was he joking? She furrowed her brows, although her smile remained. "You want  _me_  to deduce  _you_?" she clarified.

"I just told you this, yes. Deduction isn't as easy for the simple-minded, but you've proven yourself clever enough. So, try your hand at it, and I'll tell you how sharp you are."

His sentence came to a graceful end. Julia took a deep breath and leaned slightly forward, her head tilting down as she examined his face, his frosted pools, his dark chocolate-brown hair. _I might as well give it a shot_ , she thought. She focused on him and only him, attempting to drown out the sound of clattering dishes and chatter. "You're... a well-dressed fellow, mostly wearing lavish brands. You're married to your work despite being fawned over by women in and around your profession," she recited carefully. "You take care of yourself, making sure you shave twice a week and eat right."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed fondly. "What else?"

"You're the youngest in your family. Mrs Hudson is the closest thing you've had to a mother in quite some time, seeing as you never visit home very often. Mycroft and you have had an intense rivalry since you were young... you bully him over his weight." Julia bit down on her lip, eyes washing over him. Leaning back in her seat, she crossed her arms over her chest, drawing every bit of information about him as she could from the back of her memory. Her conscience leafed through the dusty files ever so gingerly. "You are snide and take things too literally. You have a horrible case of obsessive compulsive disorder and have been playing violin since you were seven years old. It helps you organise your thoughts and whatever small amount of meagre feelings you have. You enjoy Beethoven and Bach, although you also don't mind Christmas carols either. You put your milk in before your cereal and wet your toothbrush before and after putting on toothpaste."

Julia took a deep breath. "You're a dog person, not a cat person."

The detective's thumb gently feathered over his bottom lip, intently watching her, burning two holes into her skull. The waitress had returned and set the cups down with a gentle clatter. Julia's heart leapt from her chest. She reached over, thanking the woman, and pulled her saucer over to herself. Steam rose and coiled between them as Sherlock continued to stare. "I was eleven years old," he dictated, beginning his corrections like any teacher would. "I put milk in my cereal each morning the way anyone else would. I wet my toothbrush after putting on toothpaste, and my obsessive compulsive disorder is only mild." He hooked his fingers around the handle of his mug and blew softly across the surface of his coffee. Julia felt her belly tremble as he did this, the aroma of the hot drink filling her nose and mingling with the spicy scent of chai. "But, to be fair, you were correct for the most part."

Her fingers were beginning to burn from the temperature of the cuppa in front of her, but she did not seem to notice. He was so captivating, and she was beginning to wonder if perhaps he found her just as interesting. Clearing her throat, her head tilted back up. The woman glanced out at the streets, taking note of how it was beginning to rain. People were pulling out umbrellas and running for shelter. She suddenly felt too hot in her current state and unbuckled her sash, popping the buttons open before struggling from her coat. Carefully, she folded her sleeves up and then took a deep breath, attempting to calm her fidgeting. Sherlock was staring straight at her as she took a sip of her tea. Just how she liked it. Sighing gently, she sort of wish she had a book with her.

"You know, I think you're the most interesting person I've ever met," Julia remarked. "You're a genius, just as you've always told me, but these past few weeks have shown me the authenticity behind your words. Your confidence is contagious, too."

"Oh, stop," he tutted, a hand shooing her away. His eyes begged her to continue.

"Well, you and John have made me a braver person. If... if I hadn't caught some of your light, I don't think I would have even dared jump into the Thames and helped John find you." There was a sudden aura of tension as the two withheld their own thoughts upon her statement. Pinching her eyes together, she turned to look upon him, tucking some hair behind her ear and taking note of how warm the pads of her fingers were. "Do you remember any of it?"

Sherlock took a swallow of his coffee before he carefully slid his arms from his trench coat. He was taking his time in answering, that was for certain. "It was naturally hard to swim, seeing as I was injured," he began. "The bruising from the explosion at Saint Victoria's was nothing I couldn't handle, obviously, but the temperature of the water, on the other hand..." He glanced out the window. "I recall hitting the water, as well as the sound of your screaming from above the surface. Otherwise... nothing more."

"Well, it certainly wasn't easy. John couldn't swim on his own with how his leg was at the time, so I just jumped in to assist, and dead-weight is horribly heavy, especially in water. We pulled you out and you had already breathed in too much water. You were turning blue... so, John was the one who started the chest compressions. He had me perform the actual rescue breaths." Her heart sped up as she recalled the feeling of his mouth. How childish of her to focus on that aspect now, even after she had been doing it strictly in order to save his life. They had been desperate, and she was completely sure that John would have done the same in any situation. If it had been her performing the compressions, he wouldn't have even thought twice about it. She could feel her cheeks burn pink and hoped the detective wouldn't point it out.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I am grateful," he mumbled, shutting his eyes as he downed another gulp of the scalding hot bean water. Sherlock suddenly looked into his cup as if he wished it were bourbon. Her hand slithered across the cool counter-top and her fingers gently brushed his hand. At first he flinched back, staring accusingly at her hand for a fleeting moment before his eyes reached her face. Those pools of sparkling ice softened slightly.

"I am too," she murmured gently, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. Sherlock appeared rather uncomfortable under her meandering fingers, yet he allowed her to keep touching him before she decided to draw away. His shoulders visibly eased up and he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing softly. He really did not know how to handle himself properly around the people he cared about. The two gazed out the window once more, the relentless droplets of water beginning to run fervently down the glass. It crashed to the ground in sheets, which evidently lead to there being a gust of moist air coming in each time some poor person traipsed in, sodden to the bone.

Julia clicked her tongue, trying to lighten the mood. "We did not even bring an umbrella," she sighed, leaning into a palm. The detective across from her hummed. "I suppose we could wait it out..."

"That would be redundant, seeing as we need to go shopping," he muttered, shooting her a fleeting slant. "We don't have all day."

"Shopping?" Her head rose and she cocked a brow. "For Christmas?"

"We're out anyway," he lamented, seeming reluctant to even do so. Julia suspected that it was the numerous amounts of people milling about, which she could understand completely. She had never been a fan of crowds herself, mostly considering the fact that pick-pockets were a problem in London. Too many grabbing hands, too little space. It was hard to even breathe outside while on the streets. Her finger trailed along the rim of her mug, which Sherlock studied carefully. He was most likely off in his own world at that moment.

The rosette began to tap her nail upon the smooth, lustrous clay. "So, you aren't as opposed to the idea of attending a dinner on Christmas Eve?" she asked

Sherlock shifted, giving her a look. Her smile slowly grew. "I never said that I wasn't opposed to the idea. John and Mrs. Hudson seem to be keen, so I can see that my vote wouldn't even be considered."

Julia frowned. "Of course it would be considered, Sherlock. You live in 221B just as John does, and auntie may be your landlady, but that does not mean her word overrules your own."

There was a brief pause, the two looking upon one another with perplexity. Neither could understand the other in that moment. The detective wavered, letting out a hot breath through his nostrils and crossing his arms once more. Her finger continued its little adventure across the rim of the mug between her dainty hands.

"Regardless, I may as well partake." Sherlock's statement caused her to smile softly, joy overriding any bit of doubt in her mind. She would make sure of it that Mr. Holmes enjoyed himself this coming Tuesday. Even a sociopath could let himself go once in a while, could they not? The two finished their drinks and paid their bill before they trekked out into the rain. For a while they stood beneath the overhang of the cafe, contemplating on where to go as they were buffeted by the breeze of passing cars, a fine mist painting their features with each whizzing vehicle. Finally, they made a decision.

"Under here," Sherlock insisted, and, not wanting to argue, the rosette slipped beneath his arm. "We can't have you getting yourself sick before the party, can we? You'd take up too much of Mrs. Hudson's time and then nothing would get done." The man raised his coat up over their heads and they quickly trotted across the road, attempting to avoid the rain. Julia let out an enthusiastic squeak as they finally made it to their destination, ducking out from beneath the shelter of Sherlock's warm coat and jogging to the closest store. She zipped inside, holding the door for the drenched detective, the two coming to a standstill inside of the antique store.

"A lil' wet out there, don't ya think?" chuckled the storekeeper, his round ogling glasses nearly too big for him. He was short and round, his smile as fresh as snow. The colour of his sweater reminded her of the time her family had gone to California to visit an overseas friend. It had been so warm and the water so gentle. Julia could still taste the salt in her mouth and even recall the feeling of seaweed tickling her toes.

"More than a little, yes," she laughed softly, rubbing the damp arms of her coat. She felt John brush by her, strolling along the shelves, taking in every bit of porcelain and each little trinket in view. Sherlock was deducing them, she could simply tell. He probably had a knack for finding interesting pieces, given how the flat was decorated. The entire shop smelled musty and old. "I'd be more inclined for snow, seeing as it's nearly Christmas."

The older gentleman chuckled in response, returning to his book, typing away at his old calculator as he added and subtracted sales, jotting them down in his checking journal. "I find this weather exhausting to be out in. It's better for curling up with a nice book by th' fire."

"Really? I find it quite the opposite," Sherlock piped up, although he was leaning over an old wash basin full of vinyl records rather than truly addressing him head-on. He frowned. "Are you aware of how easy these are to steal?"

"Sherlock," Julia warned.

"Yes. I am lucky I don't have any young'uns comin' in these days."

"It is not a matter of teenagers, sir. It's human error you must be aware of," the detective stated plainly, making a fool of the older man. Nonetheless, he smiled as the sleuth passed by the counter. Julia came to the front, gazing in at the more expensive pieces inside the cabinet beneath the storekeeper's books and papers.

"I apologise. He is a bit full of himself," she whispered softly.

The man seemed indifferent, his belly and chest rumbling as he laughed once again. "No need to say sorry, lass. I know this fellow. He helped solved a case involving my neighbour's son." Julia's head rose and she gawked at him, lips parting. "He was found alive, too. Nathan had got all caught up in the drug scene. An amazing mind he has, and to have him here in my shop is a right honour, it is."

"He's also a royal pain in the ass because he  _knows_  it. You'd think he would be humble about it."

"It's as if you think I am deaf, Julie," Sherlock called from across the shop, his dress shoes gleaming in the warm lamplight above. The ceiling fan ticked and creaked, complaining under the weight of the blades.

Julia hummed and peered at a rather charming brooch, pleased by its condition and price. Tilting her head, she attempted to imagine it on Sarah's coat, only could not. With what little spending money her aunt had given her though, perhaps she should buy it for Martha instead. The colour suited the deep plum of her coat, and she knew that she wasn't picky when it came to decadence. The enamel was coated with rose gold, the floral design upon the near spotless enamel illustrated in the form of a bouquet. "Mr. Holmes?" she summoned.

"Ms. Fuller?" he shot back, turning around and strolling over. The floorboards beneath the tacky carpet cracked. Her finger pressed against the glass surface of the display case and her apatite eyes flitted up to meet the storekeeper's round-rims. "May I have a look at that brooch there?"

"By all means," the storekeeper smiled, reaching down and pulling out the tray with careful hands. Sherlock assisted, helping him slide it into place while he moved the man's check-book and calculating devices. "It used to be my great grandmother's. I was debating on keeping it m'self, but I never really found a place to put it. Who'd you be givin' it to, if I may ask, poppet?"

Julia reached down and carefully picked the brooch up, examining it in the light. "My aunt, actually. She's been kind enough to allow me to live here rent-free for the past month, so I wanted to get her something nice as a thank you."

"Oh, well, I'm sure that piece there'll do just fine," concurred the rotund man, leaning across the table and gently taking the brooch from her fingers. "This here was made in the early seventeen-hundreds, n' survived the great war, handed down from generations before this old fellow here." He chuckled and patted his belly, sighing. "It's a venerable item, but it's beautiful and well-taken care of."

"Actually," Sherlock divulged, careless as to how it would affect the man's business. He could see right through the storekeeper with his attentive blue eyes. "This piece is from the early nineteenth century, made in Victorian style and then refurbished in the twentieth, given the rose-gold plating around the trim. It's worth about half of what you're offering. Some sorry bloke came in here and sold it to you at that price, which you found that he had snatched off of his own sister during an open-casket ceremony."

The storekeeper blinked, speechless for a brief moment after the detective's brazen statement. Julia brought her fingers to her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh that was rising up from his throat. "Now, if you would kindly bring the price down, we shouldn't have any trouble." Sherlock's final request caused the man's face to begin to turn red, his trembling hands coming to remove his glasses and then clear his throat. He moved to the register, and before she knew it, they were strolling down the street with the brooch neatly wrapped inside of a tiny shopping bag as well as the man's umbrella, which Julia had intended to return even after Sherlock had insisted they keep it after the fact.

She remained quiet, not wanting to question his suave manner of negotiation as she stared ahead of them. The rain fell without mercy, the chill easily blocked out by the pleasant warmth of her coat, as well as the heat that was passing between their bodies as they walked side-by-side within close quarters. Sharing an umbrella with the man was easy, Julia found, seeing as Sherlock had a good five inches of height in his favour. They ducked into boutiques and department stores; Julia even browsed briefly through lingerie while the detective waited outside, observing as the city traffic went by. Later, the duo caught a bus and although they had been packed together with total strangers, they still managed to have a good time. Sherlock made sure she had enough space next to him, the two clinging to the handles hanging from the ceiling of the vehicle.

Julia was humming a soft Christmas carol when the detective peered over her shoulder at the slim purse between her hands, the bag hanging from the small of her arm. She turned her head at just the wrong moment, it seemed, and made eye-contact with the sleuth. They both stared at one another for a moment, their noses brushing as he pulled back slowly. "Yes?" she whispered.

His hand found her bicep and he slowly applied pressure. "I thought you would be happy to know that we're being watched," he muttered in her ear. "Black hat, thick nose, sideburns." The sound of his deep voice resounded within her skull brought goosebumps to her limbs. Swallowing, she hoped he would not feel how her pulse grew wild at that moment. If he could, she would be able to pass it off as fear.

 _Although nothing really gets past him_ , Julia thought bitterly.

"Thank you," she responded, her eyes washing over the crowd. Sherlock was indeed correct: as her eyes swept along the cluttered bus, she met the gaze of a rather nasty looking gentleman, his body of average proportions, muscles noticeable within his neck as soon as his head turned. The stranger's jaw was sharp, nearly square and shadowed with stubble, his nose straight and perfect, eyes dark blue from the distance she stood at. A little unnerving, but with the detective next to her, she knew that she was safe. "So, what would you like for Christmas, Sherlock?"

"Me?" he echoed, glancing at her for a fleeting moment as he studied all possible escape routes in the bus. He tucked his chin in and tutted, refusing to say anything more. Julia took that as a, _'I'm a high-functioning sociopath, I never have a Christmas wish list.'_  What a silly question for the  _great_  detective! Her toe tapped along to the music playing. The bus began to slow and with a tap of his finger, the two gathered the bag and their umbrella, and then stepped off early. They melted into the flow and found their way outside, glancing around the terribly talkative flocks of people milling about the sidewalks.

Julia stuck close to the detective, brushing her loose strands of wildfire out of her small face. She could feel her pin growing sore against her scalp, and thus decided to pull it out. Her hair fell down over her shoulders, reaching just beneath her shoulder blades. "Then what would John want?" she asked once more.

"Perhaps a new book. He recently finished Victor Hugo's  _Hunchback of Notre Dame,_ so I would suggest that you look for more classic, older literature." Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up as he was receiving a call. He declined it.

Julia hummed, amused. "You do know that this will be a Secret Santa ordeal, correct?"

His head turned and he furrowed his brows, his nose scrunching up ever so slightly. "How common," he commented snidely, turning his head back to his phone as he returned it to his coat. "That's a good way to save money, however. Who am I paired with?"

"Whomever you pick, I suppose." The rosette allowed her hand to slither into the small gift bag hanging from her arm. Good, it had not been snatched while they had been on the bus. "I have auntie picked out, so you cannot choose her. You could try shopping for John or Sarah. You could even purchase something for  _Molly_  if you'd like. We have a running list, actually."

The detective remained silent for a moment, eyes washing over the stores. "Can I not just decide to not buy anybody anything?" he asked, clearly already bored with the idea.

"What a silly question!" Julia recounted, astonished by his own foolishness. "No! You have to pick someone, or else somebody will go without. We have to make it fair for everyone..." Her eyes fastened upon a rather large bookshop nestled among the other plazas and she immediately had an idea. Taking his hand, she held on firmly, dragging him in its direction. "Come, we'll find you something for John or Sarah."

"Are you  _insane_ —"

Julia squeezed his hand, slowing her pace and coming to stop just outside. Sherlock looked down into her face with a peeved, wide-eyed look, his grip of steel on the handle of their umbrella cinching tighter. "You are beginning to sound like Dr. Watson!  _Listen_. I know this is a little out of your element, although charging in blindly has always seemed to be your thing, but you were the one to suggest we go shopping," she soothed. The rosette poked a finger up at him before gesturing to the bookshop. "So, I want you to grow a pair and come with me into this store."

Taking the umbrella from the svelte gentleman, she shook it out and folded it inward, leading him inside. He seemed a bit irritable now, frustrated with her for practically dragging her into a busy little shop. Sherlock did not want to be around simpletons, but seeing as he was the one who had suggested the idea of shopping, he was going to have to bite his tongue and go along with it. "Afternoon!" called the young woman behind the desk. "Feel free to have a look around. Is there anything in particular that you're looking for?"

"Ah, yes actually... the classic literature section?" Julia inquired.

Sherlock was busy studying his surroundings.

"Near the back, to your left. All the sections are actually labelled, so I'm sure you'll find it."

Thanking the young lady, she lead the irked detective toward the designated section. The shelves were made of oak, richly stained and coated in a lacquer finish, giving them a natural lustre. They were packed with novels, some new and some old. Julia could not believe her eyes. There were so many! Quietly, the pair strolled down the staircase and into the lower level of the little store. Once they had found the section they needed, Julia stepped up to the nearest wall and ran her fingers along their spines: soft-covers, hard-covers, leather, cloth. They filled her vision with their many shapes and sizes and colours, and all she could do was sigh in content, their ancient, indescribable scent filling her nose and overwhelming her.

"Mystery novels are further to the front," Sherlock murmured, leaning slightly in order to speak in her ear within the compact space.

She simpered but did not dare turn her head, in fear that his mouth may brush her cheek and she'd turn into a puddle on the floor. The sleuth pulled himself away almost instantaneously, returning to his usual straight posture. "I prefer the real thing," Julia admitted almost flirtatiously. Her eyes drifted up and up until they found the decadent ceiling.  _What a wonderfully cluttered place,_  she reflected to herself, the smile never leaving her lips. If only she could just sit back into her coat and read all day... perhaps on one of her days off.

Following in Sherlock's footsteps, she found that he had stopped to examine a copy of J.D. Salinger's  _The Catcher in the Rye,_  although this was not what really drew her attention. Her eyes fastened to the open piano resting up against the shelving unit, novels set upon its music rack. "That's a good one," she remarked, eyeing the instrument with curiosity.

"John wouldn't enjoy it, seeing as it's more of a simple read. He would surely prefer more of a challenge," the detective dismissed, placing it back where it had been propped up on top of the little spinet. It was scuffed up and in rather poor condition, lighter in colour than her aunt's. Her hands graced over the keys and she set down her bags, settling down upon the bench. A water ring, most likely from a glass of wine or a beer bottle, was permanently engraved upon the grain of the poor thing's top-board.

Holmes clearly noticed this as well. "What a foolish thing to do..."

Julia hummed and then took a deep breath, listening to how the old building's floor shifted under Sherlock's weight as he moved to the wall next to the young woman. She played a few notes on the instrument, finding it to be kindly tuned, the fine layer of dust upon its keys giving away that it had been quite some time since somebody had sat down and played it. Her foot pumped the pedal for a moment, listening to the function within before she adjusted and brought the ivories down in a familiar pattern, enjoying the sounds it produced within the book-filled shop. At first she only used one hand, yet as she grew more adjusted to the feel, Julia began to work her second. She was brought to a stop as the detective eased down beside her and joined in, bringing his right extremity to grip her own, setting it down within her lap. "You know this song?"

"Piano Sonata No. 16, in C Minor: Mozart," Sherlock uttered, eyes trained upon their hands as they moved together in a beautiful duet. "Why ask me this question when I'm already playing?"

Julia smiled and laughed, looking down at the keys below, admiring how graceful he moved as he claimed the lower end of the spinet's claviature. "So, you play piano  _and_  violin."

"Only a little," the man beside her replied. Her arm weaselled its way up to find the notes she needed along his end, the two crossing and weaving competitively, their hands brushing here and there until they came to a stop. Their fingers collided suddenly in a rushed, mindless moment on her part, and they both seemed to get a chuckle out of this.

"Perhaps this would have worked better on a larger piano," the rosette suspected as the sleuth rose from his seat. Turning her head, Julia was met with multiple heads poking out from their respective isles, watching the two with curiosity. A few had their cameras and phones handy, which caused her to grow shy. Clearing her throat, she offered a wave, whereas the detective simply strolled away without another thought.

Quickly, she followed after the man, the duo managing to dig up Nathaniel Hawthorne's  _The Scarlet Letter._  It was good enough for Sherlock, and they purchased it with John Watson in mind. Perhaps romance could be the veteran's new favourite genre.


	16. The Magician and His Assistant

 

❧

Molly had been unimpressed, to say the least, when she ran into the two together. It had been late in the evening and they had stopped in at an Italian restaurant for a spot of dinner, when the brunette had walked in, her brown eyes gleaming and her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. Julia had never seen the other woman in casual clothing before, and she had to admit, she was quite beautiful. Sherlock had made casual conversation with the bashful woman, and in the meantime, Julia waited for their food to be finished. It seemed that each time he spoke, he would say something to upset her, which she would respond to with a faltering smile, pretending he was being funny while he stared at her, confused. Their order was cooked and boxed, handed to them carefully in exchange for what little Julia had left from the spending money her aunt had offered her for cleaning the bathroom. If the detective saw, her goose would be cooked. Strolling over to the two with their bags in tow, she drew Sherlock's attention, his eyes immediately brightening up at the sight of her and their food.

"Ah, yes, perfect," he gushed, flashing a radiant smile. The svelte gentleman exchanged the takeout for the drenched umbrella and then offered a curt nod. "Thank you Julie."

"Julie?" Molly echoed.

"A nickname. Quicker and easier on the tongue. Friends typically do that, do they not?" He skirted around her, urging the rosette to the door. "Learn to catch up, Ms. Hooper."

Julia felt her ears turning red and chewed on her bottom lip, offering an apologetic smile. Molly's brown eyes fastened themselves onto Sherlock's back and then returned to the rosette's set. She clearly was just as confused and uncomfortable as the poor hostess behind the counter, who had watched this entire little ordeal with curiosity. They reached the glass entrance and pushed their way outside, the detective immediately striding at a brisk pace, forcing poor Julia to have to jog in order to catch up with him. London was glamorous at night, yet still nonetheless busy. Lights were strung along the traffic lights and the posts, as well as along balconies and flower beds. Windows were illuminated brightly, a beacon in the chilly night. The rain had turned to snow, falling in sparkling wisps and gleaming as each flake reflected London's brilliantly dazzling glow.

The swirling alabaster powder offered an extra touch of whimsy to the holiday cheer in the rosette's heart. Her eyes ghosted to the svelte gentleman beside her, allowing herself to examine him carefully. Sherlock could surely tell she was watching him, yet he did not say a word. Taking a deep breath, she ran her fingers along the handle of her bags. She couldn't help but feel sorry for both of them: the analyst was head-over-heels for an uninterested man, and the detective was specifically avoiding so many unopened doors. It left her curious, as to why he had never really thought of dating. "Have you ever thought of at least giving Molly a chance?" Julia suggested softly, glancing over at him as they strode through the streets, searching for a place to sit together.

"Love is simply a hormonal and chemical imbalance in the brain of which I have never taken interest in exploring," Sherlock droned, refusing to meet her gaze. They carefully slowed their pace at a slope, seeing as their shoes could slip at any moment. "It is nothing short of a mental parasite that turns even the most composed beings into fumbling idiots. I'd prefer to avoid making a fool of myself. Obviously I have no time, either, for I am married to my work and my work alone."

Chewing at her lip, she hummed. He could be so stubborn at times that it was stifling. Singling out a black metal bench, the two settled themselves down and broke out the plastic forks, their pasta steaming in the frigid evening. Snow peppered Sherlock's dark hair and caught within Julia's auburn lashes, the two beginning to grow warm as they feasted side by side. At a few points, she had to fend him off again, seeing as he wanted to try some of her bolognese. "You have your own," she mused. "Why must you always steal my meals?"

"Because I was the one who paid for our drinks at Katherine's. Now, you must pay," he insisted, lunging with his fork drawn. She thwarted his efforts and then dove for his fettuccine, earning a hiss from him as some of it slopped on the ground between them. Julia ended up forcing some into her mouth, wiping a bit of the creamy sauce from her cheek as she ungracefully finished her successful intervention. She was a giggling mess, coughing slightly on the scalding hot food she so quickly chewed. "You  _ass_."

She batted her apatite pools and then leaned closer to him. "It's what I'm best at, Monsieur Holmes."

" _Parles vous français_ , Madame Fuller?"

" _Un peu_ ," she responded, offering her food over finally, just because of how handsome he looked with the street light in his stunning pools of azure, the brisk wind nipping at his cheeks and turning them faintly rosy. " _Mais pas aussi bien que toi_."

The rest of their dinner was mowed down in silence, poor Julia only managing to eat half of her own before she had grown too full. It was quarter past eight by time they finally stood up, warming their hands by sticking them in pockets and blowing hot air between them as they were cupped together. The snow was falling without mercy, which Julia had taken the time to pause once in a while in order to catch a few upon her tongue. The detective, on the other hand, merely observed her actions and commented upon how childish they were. She had contemplated nailing him in the back with some snow, but seeing as they were within a crowd and she didn't wish to embarrass Mr. Holmes, Julia decided against it.

"Oh, I love your boots!" A woman piped up as she passed by Julia, her headphones falling from her ears as she beamed over toward her.

"Thank you," she bubbled, falling behind as the two women came to a standstill. "I bought them in Glasgow before I came here."

"Oh! How long have you been in London?" the lady asked, her purple hat gathering even more snowflakes. Her shell-pink lips were smooth and glossy, hazel set resting upon her features with friendly, open-minded demeanour. The blonde's hand slithered out, offering her a handshake. "Katie Steinmetz, by the way."

The rosette's dimples grew more apparent in the Christmas lights and she squeezed Katie's hand in response. "Julia Fuller. I've been here for a little over a month, nearly two now."

"So you're here for the holidays! Delightful! How are you liking it?"

"I-It's been a bit busy for my taste," she admitted, shrugging her slender shoulders. Tucking some hair behind her ear, she chewed on the inside of her cheek. She must have looked like a fish out of water to Katie. "I'm just glad that I haven't been in this alone."

Katie laughed. "I understand. I've been studying here as an overseas student. I used to live in Minnesota. Ever been?"

Minnesota? Wasn't that in the states? She brought her hand to her lips in thought. "Come to think of it, I never have heard of it, let alone been there. How is it?"

"Cold," her new friend remarked glumly. "The weather is certainly better than it is here, though..." Katie's attention was drawn to Sherlock. The man was standing with his shoulder to them, his clever blue eyes examining the busy streets. "Where are you and your boyfriend headed?"

"Oh!  _Sherlock_ — he's— not my boyfriend, he's a friend," Julia sputtered, dreading the fact that her cheeks became even pinker with embarrassment. It had to have been painfully obvious in the golden spot-light filtering in through the glass of one of the nearby boutiques.

" _Obviously_ ," he scoffed, turning to face the two. "Time to go, Julia."

Deflating slightly, she offered Katie a sheepish glance, wishing to apologize for how eager the detective was to flee. She quietly said goodbye. "It was nice to meet you—"

The girl perked up and stepped forward, pulling her back by one of her arms in an almost childish manner. Julia felt a pang of anxiety wash over her as she was suddenly touched by a stranger. She turned her head so quickly that she could have sworn that her neck had audibly cracked. "Hey, well, at least let me get your number!"

Julia was delighted by the idea, but as she reached into her purse, she recalled that her phone had been left behind at Sherlock's flat. "Oh, blast! I left it back at home," she sighed, her heart sinking. It wasn't until she felt a hand upon her shoulder that she was drawn from her moment of self-degradation. One of Sherlock's pale hands ghosted into view, and within it was her device, as if he had pulled it from his magical hat. "Where did you get that?"

"Have I never told you how easy it is to pick someone's pocket?" he inquired deviously as she snatched it away. Julia stuck her tongue out at him and brushed him away. Katie and the rosette finally managed to exchange emails and other contact details, and then said their farewells. As they were strolling away, making their way across town once more, Julia couldn't help but puzzle over how the sleuth had managed to try his hand at the art of silent theft. Hopefully this would be the last time he would pull something like that. Taking the time to open her phone, she noticed two messages from Elliot and four missed calls from John. Her heart hammered in her chest as she began to read them, praying that he had been informed of her sudden little outing with Sherlock. He wouldn't be upset, would he?

**Just on my way from lunch.**   
**Didn't see you around. Maybe**   
**next time?**

_(12/22/11, 12:03PM)_

**Haven't heard from you lately,**   
**hope you're having a good**   
**day. Love you :)**

_(12/22/11, 3:26PM)_

Oh, why had she not clued in to Sherlock's mischievous nature? Was she really that much of a fool to overlook her own cellular phone being snatched from her purse? The young woman sighed heavily and shook her head, beginning to type out a quick message using numb fingers. Vehicles were backed up in the streets, honking irritably at one another as their drivers were eager to get home for the night. She read over her message a few times before hitting send.

**On our way back to Baker Street.**   
**I'll give you a call once we're home.**

_(12/22/11, 8:27PM)_

The moment her eyes rose, she felt Sherlock's hand upon her arm and she jumped at the sight of that same man they had spotted upon the bus. Their abrupt collision was unavoidable, the burly man slamming into her shoulder-first and nearly knocking her off her feet, dropping the two bags hanging from her slender arm and stumbling into her companion. Sherlock shot the threat a nasty glower and then set her back on her feet, standing guard as she scooped up the bags. As soon as Julia looked upon the svelte gentleman's high cheekbones and piercing gaze, she was surprised as he held a hand out to her. "Hand me the box," he murmured.

Although this would have been the part where the rosette would have argued, insisting that she keep the gifts herself, she suddenly knew something was off and did as she was told. They abandoned the shopping bags and Sherlock stowed them away within the confines of his coat lining. He then jerked his head forward and they silently travelled the way the man had come, continuing at a keen pace. They paused at the lights, approaching a small palmful of people and attempting to merge themselves within their numbers. "What was that man doing, making a b-line for me? He nearly knocked me flat," Julia finally hissed.

"We're being followed." Sherlock's words hit her harder than the stranger had. She stared at him, her face draining of all colour. Her blood ran cold, her breath coming in frosty puffs as if she were smoking a cigarette. Julia was immediately uncomfortable. It wasn't hard to tell that he was urgently trying to convey to her the gravity of the situation. The dull hum of trillions of simultaneous conversations filled her ears, the rumble of a passing route-master nearly drowning out his voice. "I need you to keep moving."

The lights changed colour. Julia felt as if she were glued to where she was standing, as if the icy temperatures had froze her feet to the tarmac beneath her, until she felt Sherlock's grip upon her elbow as he hastily urged her on. "By who?" she whispered.

"Just keep your nerve, Julie..." How was she supposed to keep her nerve in a situation like this? She looked over her shoulder, staring into the faces of multiple strangers, unaware of any pursuers at the time. Taking a deep breath, she slid her folded elbow free and grabbed hold of Sherlock's pinkie finger, refusing to let go until the two were upon the other side of the street. The chill seeping through her jeans was beginning to cause her legs to burn, the whirlwind of snow suddenly tossing her hair around in a dust-bowl of carnelian. Snippets of speech stuck out to her as she attempted to focus on anything but her own growing fear. Christmas cake, fish and chips, brandy, flat tire, dying sister, cheating girlfriends, church every Sunday...

They made an abrupt diagonal path toward the little outlets in the middle of the street, following after a stray string of people as they were hoping to make it before the lights had changed. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, then back up at the amber ball above their heads. Unable to keep her attention ahead of herself, Julia swallowed and gave in to her nagging thoughts. Perhaps Sherlock was merely playing some sort of ill-natured trick? Her gaze fastened itself to at least three men dressed in dark clothing, their eyes as lethal and dark as pits of mercury. As the wind stirred their coats, Julia caught sight of something metallic hidden away within the confines of his coat, the other speaking through an earpiece to somebody in a mumbling, nonsensical tongue.

" _Sherlock_ ," she whispered, her heart up within her nose. Sheer terror overwhelmed her and before the light had turned, the detective latched onto her hand and the two burst out into the traffic. People cried out for them to stop, suddenly frightened by their leap of faith; horns blared and the sudden clamour of feet alerted the two to their fast approach. The soared up onto the sidewalk and charged through the sightseers and shoppers, hair and scarves flying like flags in the hurricane of alabaster. Colours bled into the night like a trembling snapshot upon a Kodak, faces coming and going in faint blips as they barrelled along the streets. They rounded into the nearest alley, approaching a dead-end and a stone fence. Sherlock swiftly scaled it with the agility of a cat, landing with a huff and then quickly turning on his heels. Julia began to climb, the oncoming clatter of shoes against snow and pavement goading her further.

The rosette grunted as she made it to the top and she carefully balanced up on rail, hopping down into Sherlock's open arms.

"Nice catch," she breathed, and then returned to their winded silence, racing for some sort of means of escape. Her cardiovascular system hadn't been worked this hard in a while, which evidently left her with a stitch in her side, although the pain wasn't her main concern at the moment, seeing as her life was in danger. They scrambled between two tightly neighbouring buildings and then came out the other side, stumbling out into the street and just narrowly being missed by a screaming motorcycle.

At first they appeared to be in the clear, until Sherlock's head whipped left, then right, and then he snatched up her vagrant hand. "This way!" Julia put her complete trust in him, not only because he knew London's street like the back of his hand, but because the man was more brilliant than all of the residents combined.

Darting further out into the busy road, they aimlessly disregarded the signs and lights, finding their own means of escape. A steel archway marked the nearest entrance to the nearest underground, the pair racing for the stairs and rushing down their exterior. The walls echoed with the thunder of rushing footsteps, quickly trying to shake the group that —as Julia noted as she shot a frightened peek over her shoulder— was still hot on their trail.

"Our passes—"

"Forget the damn passes!" Sherlock hissed, shoving her ahead of himself.

Julia was panting heavily, lungs heaving for air. "We'll never get away from them if we can't get through the turnstiles!" she shouted, raising her voice in order to communicate with him above the colossal bevy. "Do you really want to get shot and die down here?!"

They careened around the corner and barrelled through the cramped numbers. Approaching the turnstiles, the pair came to a screaming halt, sweating and covered in snow that melted and pooled near their feet. It was packed, the crowds beginning to either arrive for late dinners, or heading home for a quiet evening of tea. Sherlock's hand clamped down around her slim extremity and he tossed a fleeting gander at the men that searched the copious amount of innocent bystanders.

"Keep looking ahead of yourself and don't you dare break away from me," the svelte man muttered, drawing her close so he could be heard. His breath was hot against her numb ears. Julia nodded her head. Taking a deep breath, she followed after Sherlock Holmes, keeping her hand upon his chilly fingers, only breaking away in order to brush past a few pedestrians in her way. How had she gotten herself into this mess?

 _By stepping into 221B, of course_ , she thought, defeated. As her heart hammered in her throat, she witnessed Sherlock stumble into the man in front of him and apologise with the falsest simper she had ever seen. His hand promptly found the man's boarding pass and he quickly passed it through the turnstile before sending him off with a swift goodbye. One of Sherlock's arms snaked behind his back and Julia instinctively grabbed what she was offered, passing it through the system once more without any guilt.

They were quickly through, leaving the enemy behind and quickly hopping on their designated train. Sherlock spotted one car in particular and strode toward it, hastily hopping on with Julia in tow. Once they were on, the doors shut and they were left with only their pounding hearts and the jubilant tune of  _Baby It's Cold_   _Outside_  filling the luminous subway car. Her wide beryl eyes slowly moved to meet Sherlock's after he had finished expertly explaining to their victim that he had  _'dropped'_  his pass on his way through. Sherlock was quietly thanked and justice was restored, the two standing and facing the windows, the cement walls flying by as they sped in the direction of... wait, where were they heading?

Julia's hands pried from the bar to her left. "Is this what life is like for you everyday?" she murmured softly, glancing up at the svelte sleuth. He leered down at her and smirked, earning an exasperated laugh and an eye-roll from the rosette. The case had reemerged out of the woodwork and Sherlock was positively ecstatic. Leaning her weary head against the bar to her left, she sighed heavily.

"I'd be best to flee back to Glasgow, then..."


	17. Impact

 

❧

Solace: that's all that's the only word that Julia could use to describe the moment she finally stumbled in through the door of 221B, Sherlock bounding into the flat with the energy of a newborn colt. The light was dim, as it always was during the evening, the streetlamps illuminating the fat flakes of snow that fell to earth from the ashen sky above. The hearth's fire was absent, although a particularly attractive display of tiny fairy lights accompanied by a display of false holly and garland decorated its face, giving it a charming, rustic touch of Christmas cheer. Julia could tell Sarah had been over recently. The woman was a genius when it came to interior design, turning even the drab little apartment of 221B into something worth living in. The rosette set to fixing up their things, as she knew that Sherlock had their gifts for both her auntie and for John stored safely inside of the detective's coat. As soon as he shucked it off himself and pranced toward the kitchen to speak to John, she quickly moved them to where they were safe within her purse. If she forgot them, Sherlock would surely ruin the surprise  _somehow_.

John was confused when he saw how exhilarated the sleuth was, although he grinned nonetheless, even despite how he had been caught off guard by his friend's burst of zeal. "Sherlock? You two are late getting back-  _woah_!"

"The hunt, John! The hunt is back on!" The svelte gentleman grabbed his flatmate's hands and spun him toward his chair while the veteran stumbled along. Before Julia knew it, he had launched John away from himself, cleared the short distance between the two of them in one swift moment and drawn her into his arms. The two waltzed gracefully around the room, although keeping up at quite a quick, clipping pace. Laughter bubbled at the woman's lips, a few elated squeals escaping her, much like an excited child would while being swung around by her father. In a furore, Sherlock finally allowed her to come to a standstill and fell, quite literally, down into his chair, as giddy as a school girl. "Zielinski may have fled, but his men are back for more."

"M-More? But hadn't they closed the case not too long ago?"

Julia scowled, shaking her head. "The police have, but  _they_  certainly haven't given up. They were after us all the way through the bloody streets, one in particular brandishing a gun. They surely would have shot us dead if not for Sherlock's quick thinking." She then sighed and ran a hand over her face, coming to find herself a comfortable place to sit upon the old floor.

Sherlock suddenly let out an enormous cackle, balling his fists and raising them in the air. "The songs ring true! It really is beginning to look like Christmas, is it not, John?"

"You mean to tell me that they're trying to  _kill_  you?! And that you're  _excited_  about this?!" Despite his flatmate's enthusiasm, John was shocked, his mouth hanging slightly open. His grey-blue eyes were hard and impregnated with displeasure. Julia had to admit, she had been expecting their Christmas to be a bit more laid back than this. She looked to Sherlock, who merely clucked and waved the doctor off.

"John," he coaxed. "You know by now that this city will always be riddled with crime just begging me to solve. You were made for this just as well as I am."

"Crime scenes, sure, but  _attempted_   _assassination_?!" the doctor fumed, his head shaking. He tore his gaze away and rolled his neck, crossing his arms over his chest in a very stubborn manner. Julia couldn't help but laugh softly. " _Oh_ , no. No! Not my cup of tea, at all. I will not sit by and watch my friend be killed by a bunch of blood-thirsty, child-murdering psychopaths!"

The detective clapped his hands and quickly stood himself up. "Good, then you agree, we must take this case  _immediately_!"

"Sherlock," Julia groaned, looking up with exhausted eyes. "Lestrade has not even called you yet. You cannot simply go to him and assume he will offer his service to you..."

John pointed a finger in her direction, lips flattening into a smug grin. "See?"

"It will only be a matter of time!"

"No,  _no_! They're out for blood again, Sherlock, and this time it's your own," John stressed, voice rising slightly. "Have you any concept of the danger that you are now in?"

Sherlock paid no mind to the doctor's words. Julia frowned and rose to her feet, giving her jeans a careful tug upwards and straightening out her sweater. Plodding around to his right, she reached up and unpinned her russet waves, allowing them to tumble over her shoulders. It was getting on ten in the evening and the young woman was beginning to think that she should turn in soon, seeing as they were finally home. She was exhausted from all the dashing around.

"If they had caught us, what then?" Julia inquired lightly as the detective stretched a lengthy arm down and retrieved his precious violin from where it leaned against his armchair.

His head tilted up, eyes peering at her with mischief present. "Then perhaps things would have ended a bit differently. They surely would have skinned us alive, Ms. Fuller."

Her stomach turned at the idea. Julia cleared her throat, frowning at the distressed doctor, who was now leaning forward with his face in his hands, and then back toward Sherlock's content and proud smile. "It's as if you'd like to have died. Is that what you want?"

"I have tried, it never works out," Sherlock practically purred, earning a soft chuckle and a shake from her head. The young woman sighed as he swept up from where he had been cleaning his luxurious bow and began to play a jolly rendition of  _Deck the Halls_. The music capered and pranced along, melting harmoniously into  _O, Holy Night_. She slowly hummed along to the notes and hovered in the doorway of the flat, watching the handsome man as he shut his eyes and slowly swayed to the sound of his own music. The silver silhouette that contoured Sherlock's striking profile gave him an almost ghostly look, causing her own heart to waver. Julia fidgeted with her fingernails and then distracted herself from the sight by leaning down in order to retrieve her bag and coat.

"Leaving so soon?" John piped up, drawing her attention as he spoke over the beautiful tune. The rosette offered a warm smile and nodded. It was time for bed, she knew. Waving to John, she wished him a good night and blew him a kiss as he rose to his feet. He nodded curtly. "Have a good night's rest. You've earned it, Julia..."

"Thank you, love," she murmured, pushing her way through the door. The detective's magnificent set of carols brought that sort of Christmas cheer you only ever received while at home with your parents as a young child. There was magic in the air and Julia was excited to harness it and use it to her advantage the evening she was to dine with her closest friends. All she had to do was figure out the reservations for dinner with Elliot, as well as ask Sarah what she could borrow for the night. John's girlfriend had insisted she help herself to a few pieces from her wardrobe, which had taken her by surprise. If Sarah trusted her that much, perhaps it was the beginning of something new? Friendship with another girl was something she missed dearly.

Julia hadn't made it even made it halfway up the stairs when she realized that she was missing her scarf. With a sigh, she mentally bullied herself, seeing as she would lose her head if it weren't attached to her shoulders. Pinwheeling, she shimmied down the stairs and crossed the small foyer, turning the doorknob and opening the door. "Sorry for the intrusion again, just-"

Her head had popped in through the door and she had examined the flat for perhaps six seconds, when suddenly Sherlock's violin shrieked as it blunderously assaulted the strings. "Sherlock!" John's voice cracked in alarm. The detective abruptly collapsed, hitting the ground hard. Aghast, Julia moved so quickly that she just about lost her balance while rounding the chair, coming to a screaming halt next to John. The two knelt over the now unconscious detective, checking his vitals.

"He fainted," the doctor established, head shooting up. "Help me get him to the couch!"

Julia, putting all fear behind herself, grabbed hold of the svelte gentleman's ankles and helped Watson hoist him up into the air without trouble. They hobbled over tactlessly, managing to side-step enough in order to straighten him out and lay him down without any trouble. Huffing, Julia looked over his colourless cheeks and came to sit beside the man upon the floor while John rushed to grab a cold cloth. Martha Hudson suddenly rushed in through the flat's open door, still dressed in her silken pajamas. "What on earth is goin' on in here?" she fretted.

"I- I-I don't know exactly. He was standing and playing, right as rain one moment, and the next he was sprawled out across the floor," Julia replied, stammering slightly as her thoughts raced a mile a minute. Her eyes fell to his limp features, watching each small, shallow breath and hoping it would not be his last. The landlady hovered over her niece's shoulder, the two exchanging a look of worry.

John soon returned, a bowl of ice water and an old rag in hand. He quickly dunked the cloth and handed it to Julia. "Put this on his brow, so he does not overheat. I'll go find him a new shirt... his body has been pushed past its limits, no doubt. Bloody fool, running all over London without any discretion of his condition. He has visited the hospital twice in one month!"

Auntie's hand squeezed her shoulder as she rose from her knelt position. "Oh, I hope he will be okay..." She brought her hands to her face and Julia could already see the tears bubbling hot behind her eyes, begging to be released.

John laughed bitterly. "He's Sherlock Holmes. He'll turn around!" With that, the doctor had retreated off into the sleuth's bedroom. The rosette heard her aunt groan and shot her a reassuring glance. Her poor aunt, always fretting over the boys as if they were her own children.

"Should I make us some tea then?" asked the elderly woman, her brows knit together as she wrung her hands. Reaching out, Julia took her aunt's soft, wry hands and pulled her over, offering a gentle smile up in her direction. She didn't want her to worry.

"I'll keep an eye on him, auntie," she cooed. "You just go back to bed. He'll most likely be up tomorrow morning." In turn, she nodded and reached down, cupping each of her cheeks and leaning down in order to press a sweet peck upon her forehead. "I love you, auntie."

"I love you too dear." Mrs Hudson rubbed her soft skin with her thumbs and then turned herself around, heading back out the door and shutting it behind herself. Deflating, she glanced back at the unconscious detective and sighed, giving her head a shake. John eventually returned with one of his plain white button ups, and they quietly helped one another remove his blazer and shirt, which were both damp with sweat. Julia took a moment to examine massive bruises upon his shoulder blades and spine, softly breathing his name as she came to grips with what exactly he had gone through in order to save her and Kaleb that night. They were yellowing and green, as well as brown in places, similar to how blemishes upon the flesh of an apple looked after it had been knocked around too much. Julia assisted in buttoning up the man's shirt, then nestled herself up beside him, twisting her frame around in order to dab the chilled scrap of material across his burning forehead.

The evening drew on and she found herself stretched out at his side, breathing in his scent and rubbing her thumb across his forehead at an excruciatingly slow pace. Sherlock's expression was tight and painful, his eyes moving beneath his lids. Her heart ached, she found, as she listened to his breath whistle almost inaudibly through his nose and felt how warm he was as he laid motionless beside her. John was dozing off in his chair, leaning into his hand while Julia watched the detective closely, supervising in case he woke up. Still, the man slept, allowing her to really take her time and study his face at such a short distance away. Julia's head eventually rolled upon its joint, coming to look upon the dozing doctor.

"John, sweetheart," she called ever so softly. The man's head shot up and he snorted, glancing around while furiously blinking his eyes. "You shouldn't stay up. Sherlock will be alright. I'll wake you if I need anything."

He cleared his throat and rose to his feet, his head bobbing in agreement as he rubbed an eye. "You'll be sleeping here, then?" he inquired sleepily.

"Afraid so..."

"Feel free to help yourself to some pyjamas if you need them..." John muttered, offering a wave of farewell. The exhausted veteran then disappeared to his quarters for the night. Her thoughts wandered, her eyes following the trim upon the walls, coming to fall upon how they had tossed the detective's bow and instrument into the leather chair without much thought. Julia found her fingers wandering to his hair, twirling a few pieces and then gently running a hand through the follicles. Was she going to stay permanently?

Julia would surely miss London if she did not. Elliot was there, yet that wasn't all that kept her rooted down. There was her aunt, there was John, there was  _Sherlock_. It all came back to this man, it seemed, which frustrated her horribly. Her eyes began to feel heavy and sore, the light within the flat becoming a bit harsh on the eyes. Rinsing the cloth again, she returned it to Sherlock's head and then rose to her feet. She exited the den to the bathroom and then washed her face, sighing at her reflection. Julia would never sleep again, it appeared, for this exciting life would certainly keep her on her toes. This was going to be one long night.

After making herself a cup of coffee, she picked up one of John's old novels that were set upon the bookshelf and settled down next to him once more, leaning back and craning her arm up over the pillow beneath the detective's head of brunette curls, one dainty finger coming to trail along the bridge of his nose and grace across the lids of his famous powdery blues. Soon the kettle came to a boil. If she were to stay, she would surely have to ask for a cut of the pay after each crime, or even simply retire and get herself a steady job with a decent income. She would want to at least help with her cut of rent when it came down to it at the end of each night. However, wouldn't he family be dreadfully lonesome without her? Julia hummed _She Walked Through The Fair_  to herself as she rose and made for the kitchen, preparing her cup of coffee and then returning to her fallen prince.

Once more she sank into her book, growing sleepier and sleepier, even as she sipped at the stimulant in her cup. By time it was nearly one in the morning, she snapped herself out of a doze and shut her book, grunting as she rose and wandered around the flat for a while. What would her mother think of Elliot? Would John ever pop the question to Sarah? Would Sherlock ever learn how to  _function_  properly? Running a hand through her hair, Julia leaned against the chilly glass of one of 221B's windows and hugged herself, looking down at the sidewalks below. Not a soul was out in the swirling snow storm. She was happy that the man she had been with that day was considerate enough to keep themselves safe from their enemies. The rosette was lucky that he hadn't abandoned her on the streets of London with nowhere to go. Julia had absolutely no sense of direction. This city was so big!

Returning to Sherlock's side, she peered down at him, simply watching him rest. His features were still and peaceful-- something that was not as common for him, seeing as he was constantly puzzling and deducing. "Oh, what have you done to yourself..." she whispered softly, shaking her head.

In a sudden split second, the young woman nearly leapt out of her skin as she was startled by Mr. Holmes coming to life. He heaved for air, eyes as steely and frightening as ever, cutting into the air above him as he gaped at the ceiling. Julia scrambled to settle beside him, one of her hands resting upon his chest as he attempted to sit up. "Julie-" he sputtered.

"Easy," she comforted. Julia offered a small smile. "You merely fainted. Everything is fine, we are safe.  _You're_  safe." The detective met her eyes, nodding while deep within his own dazed confusion.

Sherlock slowly grew more aware of the situation, flopping back into his couch with a sigh. "How long was I out for?" he inquired, glancing up at her.

"Hmm, perhaps an two and a half hours or so. It's ten-to right now..."

"And John?"

"Most likely fast asleep," Julia mused. She, too, sighed, her crossed arms tightening themselves against her slender body. The clock upon the fireplace, buried in false holly, tutted softly in the silence. "You really were out cold, weren't you?"

Sherlock grunted. "You are correct," he mumbled indignantly. The rosette giggled softly under her breath, glad he hadn't been acting if she were honest. Julia began to turn herself around in order to take her book elsewhere, when suddenly one of Sherlock's warm hand flew out and latched around her wrist. A bit startled, she kept her attention on the mug of coffee she had picked up before turning her head in order to offer the detective a look of confusion. Had he hit his head on the way down? "Where do you think you're going?"

"I... I was going to let you rest..." Julia gulped, eyes widening a tich as he pulled her in toward the couch. For a split second, all the rosette could imagine was the svelte detective enveloping her in his arms in a romantic moment, but all that it turned out with was her falling on her behind, directly beside him. Julia was horribly confused. The detective then laid back, handing her the damp cloth. Timidly reaching for it, she slipped her arm away from his grasp and began to carefully touch his brow, exploring as to whether his temperature had gone down or not now that he had awoken. She could feel his warmth bleeding out of him while sitting so close to him. "Sherlock, I cannot stay long. I can barely keep myself awake."

"Then sleep here," he suggested plainly, causing both of them to blink at his remark.

"Sherlock, I..." The energy between them was suddenly foreign to Julia, rendering her speechless. Her voice died in her throat and she remained as still as stone, up until she finally managed to break eye-contact with that steely gaze of his. There was so much she could say, yet Julia could not force the words off of her tongue. Elliot would surely not be pleased to hear about her sharing close sleeping quarters with another man, would he not? Perhaps he could understand the situation if he had remained unconscious all night, but with the detective awake and alert, it was difficult to explain the innocence of their position.

Moistening the cloth once more, she wrung it out and then brushed some of Sherlock's dark hair from his face. His brows furrowed at her touch, which caused her some concern. Was he uncomfortable? If so, why had he asked her to sleep down here, in 221B, and next to him of all places? He shifted beneath her hand. "You are hesitant."

Julia hummed in response, nodding her head and gently dabbing the cloth along his brow, his cheeks, his jaw and down along his neck. The detective physically shivered, recoiling slightly against the cutting chill. "Because of Elliot," he continued, this time through clenched teeth. Her head bobbed and she hummed once again. He knew her well, so she said nothing more. "He may become suspicious, but he understands that I have no intentions on intruding on... whatever it is that you two have."

The rosette fought a giggle, allowing the scrap material to rest against his cheek for a moment. "It's also unprofessional," Julia finally articulated, her hand stilling as she looked down into his pale face.  _And yet you're here staring at his mouth as if it's the first meal you've seen in days,_ a tiny voice scolded her, refusing to allow her eyes to wander any further along his lips. Sherlock was beginning to regain his natural colour again, which was a good sign. "You of all people would know about that. You have a reputation to hold up just as I do."

Sherlock shifted and grumbled softly, eyes falling away to stare at the leather hide of the couch to his right. He really wasn't one to be scolded over things he already knew, yet he did not tell her to be quiet, nor did he make a fool out of her. Julia smiled gently, returning the cloth to its respective bowl and allowing her hip and legs to rest flush against his body. She wiped her hands off on her pant-leg and then began to read once more, quietly humming to herself. Her hands wandered through his brown curls once more without discretion, combing through his scalp momentarily before returning to his forehead. Her thumb then began to rub gentle circles along his brow, her body becoming more and more heavy as she laid there, gazing at the text along the pages. Once again, the rosette found herself growing weary.

Glancing over at the detective's still form, she found that his eyes had fallen shut and that his head now lay to one side, soft breaths travelling in and out through his nose. His lips were parted ever so gently. Julia couldn't help but grin softly to herself. Removing her hand from his head, Julia thumbed the page over and then switched hands, reaching for her coffee, when Sherlock groaned ever so quietly. She cringed, hoping that she had not drawn him from his sleep. It wasn't until she felt a hand upon her elbow that her suspicions were confirmed. Sherlock, partially dormant, pulled her right back and brought her hand back to his face. Warmth surged through her chest, butterflies fluttering madly in her stomach.

So she dared not move, shut her book, and continued to stroke his brow until she, too, fell asleep.


	18. A Slight Change Of Plans

 

❧

Waking up that morning had felt... strange, to say the least. What drew Julia from her dreams was the sound of somebody knocking at the door of 221B. The flat was chilly in temperature, and thus she scrunched her body up close to Sherlock's; the two were facing the back of the couch, the resting woman's forehead pressed against his back, feeling his heartbeat beneath his skin. He was warm, and that's what she needed, was warmth. Her fingers subconsciously latched onto the back of his partially untucked shirt, the smell of detergent and his cologne saturating her senses. Julia groaned into him, her arms tucking themselves up between their bodies. Taking a deep breath, she sighed as silence returned. " _Sherlock_ ," she murmured into his spine, nestling closer until she was completely curled against him. The detective hummed and rolled over, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

These were the moments when he was most human. He was drowsy rather than alert and high-strung, his mind slowly switching on, its mechanisms and cogs beginning to heat themselves up, beginning to click, beginning to work in harmony.  _Knock, knock, knock._ Both the detective and she stirred. Sherlock's hand found her shoulder and he squeezed it like he would with an old friend after being separated for too long. "Who, at this hour?" he rumbled, voice hoarse from sleep. Julia slowly became aware of their situation, tucked up against his side now, feeling his lungs expand beneath his ribs. _Sherlock. You're so warm,_ she thought, fighting her exhausted tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment. He was rubbing his eyes with the heel of his free hand. The other traveled to Julia's waist, then retracted itself. He was becoming more aware of the position that they were both in.  _Stop fidgeting. Just a bit longer._

"Julie..."  _Oh_ , his  _voice_. The words she could imagine him saying to her in his gravelly, sonorous tone left her restless. Sherlock would surely be able to make her melt with those incredible bass chords of his. He was awake now, sitting up within the small amount of space the two shared. They were just about on top of one another. Her head finally rose, a mess of tangerine curls. Her eyes were painfully dry and heavy. Sherlock's brilliant icy depths met her own and she groggily peered at him, the two both disheveled, the foggy edges of sleep still apparent upon their faces. Propping herself up, she heard it again; the sound of knuckles rapping against the heavy egress.

Slithering from the surface of the leather, she rose to her stiff legs and stretched, moving in the direction of the oak surface and peering through the door-viewer, she just about jumped out of her skin, seeing a rather sharp-looking Elliot on the other side. "Who is it?" Sherlock stood not far from her, displeased by the noise. From deeper into the apartment came John, shouting for the sleuth to answer the door in a rather angry, groggy manner.

Julia unlatched the lock, allowing the chain to dangle idly to the side as she turned the doorknob. Running her fingers up through her unkempt hair, she opened the door and squinted against the harsh tinny light that bled through the stairwell from up above. His hazel eyes washed over her, frowning softly. "Hey," she mumbled, reaching forward and taking his hand. "What's up?"

"It's nine o'clock," Elliot pointed out, checking his watch. He flashed a smile, but she could tell that he was rather bothered by her tardiness. "Were we not going to meet in order to sort out reservations downtown today?"

Oh, right, that was this morning! She visibly cringed, lip curling at her own stupidity. How could she had forgotten? Her hands came to her forehead and she sighed. "Oh hon, I am so sorry-" Movement behind her caused her to flinch. Sherlock leaned against the frame of the entrance, towering over her shoulder in order to face her boyfriend.

"Elliot, what a surprise," he intoned, although he sounded far from pleased. It was the same false facade that Sherlock had used on multiple occasions when he was angry with her. Her significant other looked between the two, brows knitting slightly in confusion. "You just woke us up."

Julia felt her ears burn at the word  _'us'_. Elliot had woken  _them_  up, he had drawn  _them_  out of their sleep, he had been the one to get  _them_  out of bed. It was a funny yet harmless little way of putting it. The rosette understood what it was like to sleep next to the detective. At some points, he would stir and roll over, laying close to her, their faces inches apart within the cramped space; other times he would remain with his nose pointed to the back of the couch, just as she had woken up to that morning. There had never been a moment where the two had been uncomfortable, either. Or, at least, Julia hadn't been.

"Oh? You spent the night here?" Julia could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he removed himself from his position behind her and sauntered off to make a pot of tea. Opening the door further, she turned and guided him inside. The scientist's eyes curiously washed around the room. "Caught up in another case?"

Julia sighed, side-stepping toward the detective's chair, ignoring the feeling of how the man watched them from within the kitchen, leaning against the back of one of the chairs that surrounded the table. "Well, Sherlock overworked himself last night. It was busy, to say the least," she murmured, tugging her sleeves over her hands. He had not even poured the water, he was just there, watching with those predatory eyes of his, like a vulture. "I suppose he pushed himself too far, and so... he just sort of, fainted."

Elliot had wandered over to the shelving unit that surrounded the fireplace. "Oh?" he piped up, stuffing a hand in his pocket as he picked out one of Sherlock's well-endowed collection of anthropology novels. The strawberry blonde glanced over his shoulder, a look of vague concern upon his face. "I'm glad to see him up and about then. Thank goodness he's alright."

"Be careful with those, Mr. Francis," Sherlock articulated, his voice biting into the calm as it always did. He wasn't a fan of this man, especially while he was nosing around within his collection of expensive books. Come to think of it, had Julia ever actually  _witnessed_  the man reading them?

"Ah, sorry." Elliot moved away, examining the fireplace. "So, what was so exhausting last night that caused superman to fall unconscious? Must have been something impressive."

Julia sighed and shook her head, shooting the man an accusatory glare, then returned her attention to her significant other.  _Make some tea already, for Christ's sake!_ Her conscience begged the silent detective. He had not even moved since they had entered the flat. He just  _stared_. What was his deal? "We were followed last night, to say the least, and we only managed to shake them in the Tube." Elliot's head shot up, features suddenly touched with a deeper bought of concern. "Nobody got hurt, thankfully, but it was rather... frightening."

He came to her side immediately, caressing the side of her face and tucking a few strands of auburn behind her ear. Those honey and emerald pools of his were extraordinary in any light, yet something silent and greedy and tenacious within her piped up, whispering ever so softly,  _although not as stunning as Sherlock's._  Julia's lips parted and she reached up, the two meeting in the middle. The kiss was warm and soft, and she felt a sharp  _zing_  of affection for the man. "But you're alright?" Elliot murmured, searching her face for any sign of distress. She nodded. "Who do you think it was?"

"Well, Sherlock knew that it would have to be some sort of connection to the Empty Boy case," Julia suspected, refusing to look at the man in question. She allowed her arms to wrap around her lover's torso and nestled her head up beneath his chin. He held her back tightly, sighing softly. "I know..."

"What have you gotten yourself into?" Elliot mumbled. "Have you contacted the police?"

Julia paused. "No... not yet," she replied, grimacing as Elliot drew away for a moment to look into her face. "I know, I know. It's dangerous, but we three have each other, and-"

 _Sherlock will keep me safe_ -

The words fought to be heard but were evidently swallowed down. "-I'm sure that you won't let anything happen to me." She had known Elliot to be worrisome, especially when it came to how fragile of a woman she could be at times. This profession was certainly an odd one for somebody of her stature to take up, but hey... it worked for her. It really did. Sherlock and John made it well worth it at the end of each day.

Elliot shook his head, his lips parting. He wanted to say something, but he wouldn't. The man drew her closer again, kissing her temple. "Perhaps... you should contact the police soon. I don't want to see you get hurt. Not after the incident at the factory," he implored, murmuring the words into her hair. After a moment of silence, the two embracing, the kettle thumped against the burner.

" _Anyway_!" Sherlock practically shouted. "You two should get moving if you have to find a place for tomorrow evening's events. I'd suggest you move quickly, seeing as it's the day before Christmas Eve. Places will surely be packed."

The scientist hummed in agreement. "Do you want to change before we head out?" he asked, even despite the fact that he knew there was a time-crunch. Julia knew that she could do with a shower, but if she really needed to, she could have herself ready within fifteen minutes.

"If you don't mind," Julia simpered, moving for the door, her hand within Elliot's. Shooting Sherlock a glance, she offered an apologetic smile, to which he simply narrowed his eyes at. Oh, it had been a mistake bringing him inside of their flat. He would surely be fuming about it to John later on. Quickly grabbing her things, they slipped through the entrance and mosied on up the stairs, reaching her aunt's flat rather quickly. "I'm sorry you saw that. I just... I fell asleep on the couch next to him and.."

"It's alright Jewels," Elliot laughed. No, it was not. He was hiding it. Julia chewed on her bottom lip as they ventured into the flat, earning a soft hello from Martha Hudson. "I get it. You were just taking care of him."

"Oh! So this is the boy you've been seeing!" trilled her aunt.

Oh no! Elliot's head swiveled on its joint, his lips parting and his faint smile growing. He immediately took her bag from her and set it in the small little wardrobe where it belonged. "Martha, I presume?" he offered, reaching forward for a handshake, only to be yanked into a crushing hug from her aunt's surprisingly strong limbs. He grunted softly, but then chuckled.

"It's so nice to meet you, finally!" The elderly woman was so excited, her smile as big as ever, her makeupless cheeks a nature rich shade of rose. "Oh, he is a handsome lad, he is. Such charming features... You've done well, Julia!"

"Auntie, please," she begged, although could not help but try and stifle a giggle as she pulled him down and kissed him on the forehead. "You're going to break the poor man before you've even gotten to know him!"

Elliot laughed, shaking his head. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It's very nice to meet you too."

Shaking her head, Julia turned and exited to the spare room, taking her time in getting herself ready. Her limbs were admittedly still a little sore from having remained in one place for so long. When had she last slept on a couch, anyway, let alone next to a man? The redhead quietly padded to the bathroom and quickly peeled off her clothes, hopping into the shower. The water was cold, which helped wake her up each morning; it had been quite some time since she had last taken a warm shower. It always tended to make her sleepier. Julia had scrubbed and washed herself clean within five minutes before she finally stepped out of the bathroom, her bare frame wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her hair was a mess of damp auburn tangles that draped down her back like hanging lichen.

She combed it out, dried it and then quickly tied it into a fishtail braid, slithering her frame into her cotton bra and underwear before picking out a set of clothes. Black, grey and blue striped turtleneck, dark grey jeans, socks and her aunt's earrings. Julia contemplated on putting on makeup, seeing as they were going out, but then decided against anything too drastic. She finished powdering her nose and blush, then applied mascara. With a satisfied nod, she twirled a stray strand of auburn and turned, heading out into the flat's main living room. "Ready?" she asked, earning a leer from her boyfriend from where he sat in her aunt's expensive armchair.

"You couldn't have been a bit longer?" he teased, standing up and kissing her the moment they were close enough. Julia pushed him and rolled her eyes, moving to grab her coat. Tying the sash, she picked up her purse. Down the stairs they went, the young woman taking the time to check her phone. It was nearly ten thirty. She felt a bit bad. Elliot had wanted to go out an hour and a half ago, and she had ruined their early morning randevou, all because of Sherlock. They stepped up to the car, the young woman rounding the vehicle's left side and pausing as she waited for her boyfriend to unlock the doors. Whilst in the middle of her thoughts, she heard the gentle crooning of a violin and looked up, her heart fluttering.

 _Oh, Sherlock_... she thought, watching him sway in the window as he collected his thoughts. She would recognize  _Valse Sentimentale_  anywhere. It had been forever, of course, since she had heard it, so as she listened, she strained her ears. The detective's eyes found her suddenly, in that moment, his bow sliding over a single note in thought before picking up with a mighty crescendo and stepping out of view, the song growing distant until almost inaudible.

Julia got inside the car. They drove downtown, discussing their options. Popping into a few places, the duo was disappointed to find that the business was completely booked for the night in question. The little notepad she tended to use to sketch in was retrieved from her purse, along with a pen from inside of the dashboard, going through her little list as they sat quietly together in one of their chosen parking lots. Damp air tumbled in through the cracked passenger window, a few glistening snowflakes fluttering in. Sighing heavy, she leaned back in her seat. "I knew that we should have made reservations as soon as we could," Julia groaned, looking down at their pitiful list. She had eventually gone from tiny little crosses to big fat 'x's along the column. "I'm sorry we didn't come out earlier. Ugh, Sherlock was right."

Elliot sighed along with her and shrugged his shoulders, drumming his thumbs along the steering wheel. "I don't think that would have made much of a difference Jewels," he teased as he put it into reverse, backing out of their designated spot. The drive was quiet, aside from the scientist's soft humming.  _So This Is Christmas_ by John Lennon seeped through the speakers and Julia smiled, feeling the mood lighten. Leaning forward, she turned up the volume and harmonized with the man, earning an impressed glance from him.

"It's been so long since I've heard this song," she remarked, leaned against the sill, peering out at the shops they passed by. Right turning signal, wait for pedestrian. She did a double-take. Pedestrian; brown hair, curls, strapping? No, it was simply a woman: fairer and much smaller in size. Christ, where was her head? She needed to stop thinking about the detective. He was everywhere. Her hand found Elliot's leg, her finger gently tracing the hem of his jeans before coming to fiddle with his coat. The analyst shifted uncomfortably, her touch clearly stirring some suppressed desire that churned restlessly beneath his skin. Instinctively, her hand gripped his warm thigh, her eyes dancing over to his own as they exchanged a glance. The vehicle rolled to a stop as they peered out their respective windows.

Her foot tapped. She checked her phone. "You still haven't gone skating with me like you promised..." Elliot's voice lingered in the silence as they turned left, the vehicle slowing as they neared the base of the hill. Tilting her head, she laughed ever so gently, recalling how they had mentioned going ice skating. Julia rubbed the side of her cheek in thought, watching the faces drift by. Maybe the rosette had declined his offer because of how bashful she had been while they were simply seeing each other, but now that they were together, perhaps it was a fun ride. Elliot rarely had any free time, which was why she thought they should jump at the change.

Leaning against the door the car, she arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to go?"

Mischief danced within his eyes. The strawberry blonde flipped on his signal and made a rather hasty right turn, heading down a narrow side-street in order to reroute himself. Curious as to which way they were exactly going, Julia straightened up in her seat. The sudden change of plans was interesting to say the least; she couldn't help but feel a big giddy as she anticipated going skating for the first time since she was a young girl. Julia fiddled with her hand-made scarf, the red material sliding over her finger pads in a motion she found most comforting.

Her imagination wandered, wondering where her Elliot would take her. The young woman pictured a small indoor rink, like the ones back home in Glasgow, but was sadly mistaken as they pulled toward a large public parking lot, quickly both hopping out and paying for two hours worth. Julia had just finished checking her hair in the mirror of her boyfriend's car when suddenly the man piped up, "You coming, beautiful?"

Straightening up, she turned on her heel and then felt her belly drop as he gestured toward the biggest building she had seen since she had studied the Louvre for a project in high school. The colossal pale walls were magnificent, a dome the colour of mint sticking high up into the air above. The Somerset House: she had heard about it from friends who had visited London themselves, but had never really thought it was as big as they had expressed it to be, nor as beautiful. Pictures did not do the building justice. After taking a moment to recollect herself, Julia beamed and jogged up beside Elliot. "I had no idea you were taking me here!"

"It's the best place to go skating," Elliot commented, offering a shy smile. He was proud to see how excited she was. Their hands laced together, fitting in one another comfortably. "I've visited here once or twice last year, but I used to come more often with my sisters. They'd adore you, you know."

The rosette blinked over at him. "Two sisters?"

"I have three, but the eldest is quite a bit older than I am. Rachel is the youngest, Janice closer to my age, and then Kayla. I grew up as their chaperone, seeing as my father was a rather elusive creature. They're all working on their schooling, at the moment." Strolling up toward the entrance, they pushed their way inside. The young man lead her to one of the vendor sights.

"Shoe size?"

"Six and a half," Julia replied. Elliot turned toward the grinning woman behind the glass and asked for two tickets, both 11.00 each for an hour's worth. He then rented them two sets of skates and they made their way down toward the rink, crossing the cobblestone as quick as she could after her eager lover. There were dozens of faces, a massive tree erected, its branches drizzled with miles of garland and lights. Voices and laughter and children shrieking in joy as everyone zipped by in one continuous circle, gliding gracefully along the thick layer of ice between the ramps.

Music blasted through speakers set off to the sides, hot chocolate being sold near the other side of the large platform of frozen water. Julia pulled on her skates and then stood up, steadied by Francis as she suddenly wobbled while on her way to wait by the railing. Children were ruddy in the cheeks, couples arm in arm as they were propelled forward in unison; a few friends simultaneously fell upon their behinds while trying to perform silly tricks. Smiles, smiles, smiles! Dozens of smiles. Christmas cheer. It was something that infected each and every person within the rather large vicinity. Oh, Julia never wanted Christmas to end.

"So was this tradition?" she piped up above the buzz. Elliot turned his head in question. "You and your sisters going skating while they were still around?"

He leaned forward a bit further, shifting from foot to foot and bringing the side of his head close to her own. He smelled so good. "Unfortunately," he murmured, glancing off at the people whizzing by. Julia watched him with deep intent. How had she ever gotten so lucky? "They fought like cats half the time, but when the holidays came around, they seemed to get along. Quite a relief for my poor ears."

"You won't have to worry about that coming from me," Julia giggled softly, pressing a brief kiss to the side of his face. They nestled closer, the young woman allowing her head to rest against the man's shoulder while they enjoyed the moment in comfortable silence. Finally, after waiting patiently, the previous skaters began to dissipate, leaving room for those to try their hand at keeping their balance. Some took off like naturals while others hobbled and tried to keep their balance on the railing. Elliot, thankfully, was kind to her and waited for her to adjust. Glide, push, glide push; it was a steady rhythm that she could easily keep up, the movements coming back to her as if it were just yesterday she had been twirling across the frost and snow. The couple began to pick up a bit of speed, their hair ruffled by the chilly breeze.

 _The Polar Express_  suddenly started up, earning a zing of exhilaration from Julia's heart as she heard Tom Hank's cheerful and exuberant tone cutting through the chatter of the crowd. Her fingers entangled with Elliot's as they swung around the ring a few laps, the rosette growing bolder and bolder as they flitted along. Soon enough, the young woman scooted ahead and turned, strands of scarlet flying as she skated backwards, although trying to keep herself balanced as she avoided those in front of her. Returning to a front-facing position, she shot a glance off in Elliot's direction, earning a wave from the scientist as he was left behind. "Isn't that the girl from the papers?" an older woman commented as Julia travelled past, her pace slowing slightly as she recalled her photo being taken the night Sherlock had just about drowned. Her nails curled into her chilled palms and she swallowed heavily, hoping to forget the arrogant detective, if only for a moment. Bing Cosby's  _White Christmas_ drawled through the air now, his deep voice swelling within her chest.

Humming along softly, she pivoted on one ankle and attempted a single axel for the first time since she was eleven, sticking the landing, although not without a tiny squeak as she just about lost her balance last minute. Her heart thrummed in her chest, but she felt pride overwhelm her as she heard Elliot whistle from a few feet away, the gentleman zig-zagging through the pedestrians in his way. "You're a natural, love!" he gushed, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the side of her face. The two grew unsteady and managed to make it to the railing before they were sent to the ground, apologising to those passing by.

"That was brilliant!" called a stranger as they zipped past.

Julia felt her ears begin to heat up, feeling eyes upon her from all directions now as they were gawked at. Some seemed to approve while others were a bit uneasy, most likely not wanting to be flattened if she tried again. "How long did you take lessons for again?"

"Nearly four years," she puffed, trying to catch her breath. Her eyes followed those skating past and she grew hungry for more, turning toward Elliot in one fluid motion and pulling him forward without much grace in their step. "Come on, we shouldn't waste our time!" The scientist's laughter filled her ears, along with the tune of the all-famous  _All I Want For Christmas Is You._

With a quick turn, the two both began to lip sync to one another, the young woman ending up interrupting as she cackled, Elliot whipping his head around like a pop singer on stage becoming too much for her. Spinning around, she drifted further, taking a deep breath and admiring the soft powdery flakes falling from the sunny sky above. This was how life was supposed to feel: smiling until your cheeks hurt and laughing until your sides hurt. Ambitious as ever, she saluted her boyfriend and burst ahead, preparing to take a second leap within the nearest empty space and then throwing herself into the air so recklessly. The world became a blur of colour around her and Julia felt her feet meet the ground, only for her ankle to give. She found her flailing arms being caught, her ears ringing from the cry that erupted her savior.

The two scrambled for a foothold, the young woman's behind finding the cold surface of the ice, yet her upper torso propped up as if sitting, hanging from the stranger's grip by her elbows. Her head careened back and she stared up into the man's face, taking note of his dark eyes. "Are you okay, miss?" he asked, accent thick and almost illegible with how quick he spoke. Julia froze, her moment of recognition staggering. It had to be a coincidence, did it not?

"Jewels!" Elliot cried, making a beeline right for her at top speed. He came to a screeching halt, frost flying up into the air in a massive flurry as the blades of his skates took out a good layer of ice. "Christ, you took quite the tumble there. Are you hurt?"

"N-No, I-I-" She was stammering. Elliot and the man assisted her in getting back to her feet, guiding her to the railing. His brown hair and sharp pools of pitch examined her closely, worry painting his features. Was he actually worried? Had she seen him that night? His accent sounded familiar, although she would hate to be wary of someone from a different country. Julia swallowed hastily. The stranger's hand was still hovering upon the middle of her back.

The man met her gaze. "You hit the ice hard."

"I, er, y-yes. Thank you, for catching me." Julia swallowed, now feeling like a complete and utter bumbling fool. With a bob of his head, he shot Elliot a glance and forced a faint smile, trying to understand the situation as best he could. It seemed as though his english was not the best. Maybe she was just being paranoid. "I'm okay, really. Just a bit shaky."

Elliot visibly relaxed. "Maybe we should stick to staying on the ice, huh?" he teased, the rosette tucking some hair behind her ear and removing her eyes from where they had briefly caught sight of a pen tucked inside of his breast pocket beneath his coat. He wore a plain red shirt and jeans, his hockey skates a bit bulky in appearance, as well as scuffed, yet still in good condition. The stranger's hair was short-cut, a single tattoo punched just beneath his ear. A tiny cross. Religious? "Thank you, that was very kind of you."

The man nodded with yet another smile. "No problem. Have a good day, miss." His tag was sticking up from where it should have been hidden beneath his collar. One headphone still remained within his ear, the other having been hanging down his front after it had been knocked out upon impact. They were red in colour, matching his shirt. Cheap, bought from a corner store, most likely. Julia took a shaky breath and turned to Elliot, her hands visibly trembling as he took them in his warm gloved extremities.

"You sure you're alright?"

Her head nodded wordlessly and she cleared her throat eventually, glancing over her shoulder. "I think I'm going to go get some coffee, take a break," she excused herself, earning a wary look from her boyfriend. She forced a smile. "I just need some air. Do you want one?"

"I don't see why not," Elliot eventually agreed, quickly pulling out his wallet from where it was hiding inside of his fleece blazer. He loved the elbow-patch style so much, she wondered if she should have perhaps searched for something similar as a small gift this year. Perhaps for his birthday come February? "Here. Use my card. Pin is my birth year." Quickly exchanging a soft kiss, they parted ways, the young woman making for one of the ramps.  _That_ _wasn't a wire, was it?_ Making haste, she found their things a few benches over from where she had arrived and delved into her purse, retrieving her phone. Julia stuffed the device into her coat and then removed her skates, returning to her comfortable boots and sighing in content. Perhaps there was a reason why she had only ever attempted axels while alone.

Shivering slightly, she blew hot air into her chilly fingers and then checked her phone, carrying her skates by their entwined set of laces. Nat King Cole's  _Deck the Halls_ was next on the playlist playing over the speakers, the sound going unnoticed unfortunately though as she made her way through the swath of people around her. Her fingers flew to select her contacts, although hesitant as she highlighted one name in particular, wondering if it would be more wise to contact John instead.  _He'd be out,_ she thought, lips pressing together as she glanced around.  _Most likely with Sarah, Christmas shopping or something to that effect._

Locating the line for hot beverages, she tapped her foot and opened up the conversation she had between her and Sherlock. Her numb fingers typed quickly, trying to get the message across to him that she may have just found them a lead.

**Sherlock, might need some help.**

_(Sent, 11:12AM)_

The rosette slid her phone back into her pocket and then glanced over her shoulder, searching for Elliot. The scientist was meandering his way along the ice, hands stuffed into his pockets, his eyes gleaming in the sunshine. It took the detective all of perhaps two minutes to answer, her phone pinging softly and alerting her to his response. Julia attempted to remain calm and avoid making any suspicious moves. Her eyes flitted to her screen.

**Where are you? - S.H**

_(12/23/11, 11:13AM)_

**Somerset, with Elliot. Ran into a man,**   
**p** **ossibly one of the men from last night.**

_(12/23/11, 11:13AM)_

**Does he know? - S.H**

_(12/23/11, 11:14AM)_

The rosette's nose wrinkled. Not even an  _'are you okay?'_ She supposed that she would suspect that sort of reaction. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all. She had expected him to at least react with a bit more vigour, seeing as this case was so important to him. Was she wasting his time? Perhaps she should just leave it altogether. The man could have just coincidentally had a similar accent to those from the night before... maybe she needed more rest. Jumping to conclusions was something more suited to simple situations, opposed to ones of life and death. Sherlock surely knew better. He'd be able to tell. Still... she was uneasy. Next in line, she ordered them two hot chocolates, asking for a shot of mint flavour within her own before paying the cashier and wishing her happy holidays on her way. Leering down at her phone screen, she pondered on what to say next.

**I haven't told him. I'm getting us coffee right now. Why?**

_(12/23/11, 11:15AM)_

She waited for an answer, traveling back to their seat and excusing herself as she sat down next to a gentleman and his child. The next skate would be taking place in less than fifteen minutes. Julia tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and offered a smile at the curious little girl in her barbie-pink coat and her little pigtails. "I like your hair," Julia commented softly, causing the little girl to simper and giggle, hiding behind her father's arm afterwards. Finally, her phone went off.

**Leave it at that. Call 221B if there**   
******i** **s any trouble. - S.H**

_(12/23/11, 11:18AM)_

The man was hardly concerned and yet she couldn't fight the heavy sigh that crept out of her lips. Shaking her head, she refused to ask questions and dropped the device into her purse. Sherlock knew best... Elliot finally arrived, coming to a rapid stop and stepping up onto the rubber mats, settling down beside her with a satisfied sigh. "Still hot? Hope I didn't stay long enough for the drinks to cool."

"Still hot," she confirmed, brushing some snowflakes off his sleeves. "You've earned it too."

"I'm not the one who landed ass-first on the ice," the scientist jested, earning a swat of her hand and then an affectionate peck on the cheek.

So long as she was with Elliot, she was safe.


	19. One Phone Call

 

❧

"That's absolutely fantastic! we'll take any space you can manage," Elliot beamed,hazel eyes electric in the dimming light of day. After the two had hunted for hours on end and were just about to give up hope, they had stepped foot into a rather cosy and chic restaurant further down town. The glass doors and windows were spotless, their table arrangements perfection and the decor to die for. Julia found herself wandering across the black-and-white stretch of carpet, admiring the flowers and the soft dazzling Christmas lights with ardour. Yes, this would be perfect. A bit further into town, but worth the wait. Her fingers trailed along one of the beautiful tablecloths, feeling how soft and sleek they were, their snowy complexion flawless with not a single sign of stain. Crystalline wine glasses reflected each and every bit of light; Julia could just picture her own filled with blush or champagne. Oh, this was going to exemplary!

A hand brushed her side and she became immediately alert. Elliot was smiling so wide that his features were pinched, one singular dimple indented into his soft freckled cheek. "What do you think?" he inquired, taking her hand. "Isn't it gorgeous?"

"Absolutely," she agreed, glancing around. Her teeth found her bottom lip and she felt a burst of giddiness rush through her. One of the scientist's hands found her face, brushing a few strands of auburn up behind her ear and reaching down. Julia wiggled in excitement and met him halfway, throwing her arms around his neck. They remained like that for a while, his warm mouth on her's, the two relishing in the sensation. By time the kiss was broken, his cheeks were slightly flushed, his nose brushing against her own in an affectionate manner.

"Go get my phone from the car, beautiful," he murmured softly, his breath dancing across her cheeks. Offering one last fleeting peck, the rosette unravelled herself from him and turned, heading for the doors. They swung open, her hands gripping the cold handles ever so fondly, the second set revealing her to the people around. Julia fell into a confident trot, heading up the slight incline toward the vehicle in question. The black 1995 Chevy caprice was bathed in a layer of snow, in which she drew the same yellow smiley face that was painted across Sherlock's wall back at 221B. Once she had arrived at the passenger-side door, she unlocked it with the set of keys she had been holding and then leaned in.

His phone was settled in one of the cupholders on the door, the old flip-phone tiny in comparison to her own. The moment she straightened herself up, the young woman watched the sky as it dimmed, the streetlights beginning to grow more apparent, strings of white and coloured light alike coming to life. Snow blew in waves across the open street, a bus driving by in all its glory with stickers of decorative balls and reindeer plastered in the windows. She smiled. London. Perhaps she would stay for good. If Elliot and she worked out, she could always live with him. Shutting the door behind her, she locked the vehicle and turned, only making it five steps before she was called out to.

"Ma'am!" It was a man. Her head turned, seeing him rush up to meet her. The distance was quickly closed between the two. He was tall, he smelled of moth balls, his head covered in long sandy hair. The goatee upon his upper lip and chin were admittedly flattering for his sharp jawline. A genuine smile laced his thin lips; she took note of the fact that he had one fleck of brown in one of his nearly green eyes. He seemed to be friendly, and yet being approached by a complete stranger, Julia could not fight the wariness growing within her chest. "Ma'am, please—"

"Is something the matter?" she asked, lips parting slightly.

The man seemed out of breath, leaning over slightly. "May I use your phone?" he asked.

"Do you need an ambulance? Police?" Although she wasn't one to speak with strangers in a city she was not originally from, her generous nature blocked out all doubt within her mind and she opened Elliot's phone, beginning to search for the dial pad. Julia could not quite place his accent. It sounded almost Welsh, but at the same time...

He shook his head. "Mine died. I've been on the phone with my mother."

"Would you prefer money for a payphone? I could try and see if I have change..."

Relief washed over the man's features. "Thank you! That would be wonderful," he gushed, smiling pleasantly. "I think I have a few bills in my wallet, if you can piece together something..." The two went into motion, the stranger reaching into his pockets while she reopened the door of the vehicle.

"How much will you need?" asked the rosette, slinging her purse off her shoulder and rummaging through it. Glancing up at the gentleman across from her, she felt her entire body grow rigid, her eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. Implemented within the man's ear was a metallic, dark grey earpiece, much like that of a hearing aid, yet far from similar to anything she had ever seen someone wear. He was perhaps only half a decade older than she, which added to her suspicions. Did he have troubles hearing? Julia took note of how he hadn't had any trouble beforehand.

"Not too much—" His head swung up and their eyes met, tension becoming electrical.

She took a step back, ready to turn herself around and strut cooly away from the stranger, yet she could tell that he wasn't going to let her go that easy. "Y-You know what? I'll go see if my boyfriend has some change on him. I'm out."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice far from worried now. "Even just a little would help..."

"I-I'm sure—" Without much more of an explanation, she turned on her heels and began to walk down the street at a brisk pace, the stranger stalking after her. Julia attempted to keep herself calm, trying to keep her nerve, her nails curling into her palms. However, this did not last long, seeing as she quickly shot a glance in his direction and saw that his mask of feigned friendliness had completely dropped. A burst of adrenaline burned within her veins like acid and she bolted forward, alarmed as she heard the clatter of the stranger's boots against the ground, following after without relent. Julia neared the safety of the door, only for yet another man to step out of the dark alley perhaps a foot away from her, arms flying open as if to welcome her into a hug.

It wasn't the type of hug she would want in a situation like this. The rosette squeaked as she ducked beneath his grasping arms, pivoting out of the way as quickly as she could. An ache grew within her ankle as it twisted at an awkward angle, yet she knew she had no time to stop and nurse her injury: she broke into a sprint, clearing the traffic that barrelled toward her, her lungs trying to keep up with her hammering heart. Julia was racing blindly through London with nothing but her own gut instinct. Off in the distance, the bells of Big Ben could be heard chiming out into the December evening. As soon as she stumbled to a stop, she saw that her pursuers were on the hunt, following directly in her footsteps. Oh, she was completely lost. Which way? They would surely see her head in either direction! Upon impulse, Julia made a break for the nearest alley way, hoping to simply disappear into the numerous people about downtown.

She was brought to an abrupt stop by a high, pointy gateway that lead into the back of two neighbouring flat buildings. Great! The girl cussed under her breath and shoved her purse through, beginning to amble up the bars, moving as fast as possible. Her feet met the ground on the other side, the pain in her ankle making another appearance upon collision, and she hobbled without much finesse out of the dark back lot. Her chest burned from the lack of oxygen in her lungs and she trembled undeniably so. Julia took a hot second to catch her breath, trying to collect herself, but her frenzied mind soon urged her forward and she bolted right out into a more relaxed neighbourhood. She was quick to break into a jog and race for the blocks ahead of her, the entire while cursing herself for being so trusting. Julia did not know where she was going, but she knew that she could call a cab and get her sorry backside back to Baker Street, regardless of Elliot. Once she was safe at home, she'd be able to calm herself down.

The rosette was abruptly stopped just then, her feet leaving the curb as soon as a vehicle came flying up into view, the unexpectant driver gaping at her, her passenger grabbing for the door. The two of them exchanged a glance and she felt tears of relief sting her eyes, rounding the driver's side as the window was cranked down.

"Please— Please, I ne–need help!" she implored, bringing her hands together as she began to lose control of her emotions. "I-I'm being followed and I have no idea where I am! Can you please take me to Baker Street? My aunt lives there and I hope to call the police at some point..."

"Get in," the woman agreed, pulling the door open without delay as soon as her fumbling fingers flew to the handle. Hopping inside, she slammed the door behind them and jolted back in her seat as the vehicle quickly drove off, heading straight.

"Thank you! Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me!" she hiccuped, wiping her fervent tears from her eyes. Pulling her phone out, she glared at the name of the contact she had last since spoken to, his initials standing out even from behind a film of tears. Julia whispered a string of cuss words to herself as she angrily recalled how the man had been so flippant beforehand. ' _Call if you need anything_ '? Well, now she definitely needed him. Selecting the call option, she brought the phone to her ear and peered out the window, sniffling softly. Her knee bounced. "Come on Sherlock, you bastard, pick up... pick up..."

She was going to kill him.

"Put the phone down," the man in the passenger seat suddenly growled.

Her head turned. "Excuse me?"

His entire body twisted around in the plush leather seat, a pistol suddenly visible. Julia's gut plunged and she slowly removed the phone from her ear, hitting the end-call button with a soft  _beep_. Without seconds, the enemy shot one arm forward and sprayed a fine mist of something sweet-smelling directly into her eyes and nose. It was similar to being spritzed with perfume. Julia brought her hands to her face, trying to rid herself of the acridly honeyed smell. Her attempts were to no avail, unfortunately, seeing as her body began to grow as heavy as a stone, her head falling back as she fell unconscious.

The last she thing heard was Sinatra crooning over the radio.

_Damnit, Sherlock._

❧ ❧ ❧

"You're so fond of this flatfoot," a voice rumbled in her ear. Julia's eyes peeled open, immediately met with the sound of faint Christmas music. She was laying upon her side on a musty old carpet, the dim light of the television playing one of the original Rudolph movies and filling the room with its ever-changing flickering glow. He was knelt next to her, the smell of a cigar wafting to her nose. Slowly, she sat up, although flinched at the ache within her head. The sudden rush of blood caused her cranium to feel as if it were about to burst, her hands immediately coming to her forehead. "Careful. You'll pass out again."

Short brown hair, steady brown eyes: she recognized him from Somerset, his simple getup of jeans and a t-shirt now absent and replaced by an ugly orange dress shirt, along with dark grey slacks and a blazer that fell away too quickly, making him out to be bulkier than he really was. Julia scrambled away as soon as she laid eyes on the gun in his hand, his slender cigar smoldering at the very end in an almost romantic manner. A thick plume of smoke hung in the air, creating an almost bluish haze in the flat's cramped vicinity. His belly was more rotund than she remembered it being, but then again, she hadn't gotten a good look at him until they had been face to face.

"W–Where am I?" she gulped, her tongue dry and thick within her throat, feeling as if it were choking her even as she spoke. Her hands flew to hug her frail frame, taking note of how her coat had been neatly draped over the back of a nearby chair, along with her purse, as if she had just sauntered in for a visit and set her things down. Outside, Big Ben could be seen off a few miles, lit up like a beacon of hope. She could hear her phone going nuts from its place within her handbag. "Wh–who—"

"Bronomir Wledak," he introduced, cutting her off without much of a pause. His eyes washed over her, gleaming with something heinous. He was disturbed, he was greedy, he was vile. She whimpered and tucked her legs into herself. "You,  _cenny_ , are the lady from paper. The one with the detective who sniffed out our trade." His grin grew and he rose to his feet, traveling over to the table in the corner and picking up a thick collection of newspaper. " _Julia Fuller._ "

With a toss, the papers fell in a flurry of ink and came to land at her side, hitting the ground with an indignant slap. The picture had been taken the night of the near-drowning incident; her smiling face caught her immediate attention, sending a javelin of fear straight through her heart. What added on to this was the way Sherlock gazed into the camera, still managing to cut into her like a whip across her back. Her probing eyes fell to how one of his hands pressed to the small of her back, out of view from the snapshot and going unnoticed by most people. That austerity he usually held haunted her, even as she squeezed her eyes shut.

"That man nearly drowns for case," he observed, cocking his gun and eyeballing the window. "He tracks my men all the way to Cuba, figures out where our quarters are, our methods, and manages to shut down our London strain. A mistake, really."

"A mistake?" she gulped, looking up at him. Her face blanched and she felt a chill run through her as his gaze pierced into her. "I—" Julia's tongue passed over her cracked lips. "Y–You were killing  _children_. You're a maniac, how is stopping you a mistake?"

Suddenly, it was a stupid question. "We are everywhere. Nobody can get away with stuff like this... he takes source of natural income, I take something he loves."

"Why not just kill me now?" Her mouth needed a mute button.

Bronomir sneered and knelt once more, his rough hand coming to caress her delicate jaw. Julia was afraid that with enough force, he could snap it clean off. "Because then I can't play my game," he chuckled, looking down into her pale face. "I've been watching you two like hawk for months. Suddenly the trade isn't as much of concern." Pulling away from her, he rose and ran a hand up through his slicked-back hair. He then straightened his blazer out. Bronomir's english was difficult to understand in spots. "As to why children? Why not drugs, weapons? It is simple, like trading animal parts."

What a callous way of putting it. "Because they haven't been tainted," Julia finished for him. "You use children specifically because.. they don't.. smoke, or– or– or drink."

"Smart, aren't you,  _cessy_?" Stiffening, she held back a grimace, trying not to writhe beneath his leer. She chewed on her bottom lip, glancing around the room. He knew he had control over her, and thus had not tied her up. Perhaps this was a mistake, though. Bronomir turned himself around and strolled back over to the table, retrieving her phone from her purse and turning it on. "Anyhow. Back to business: I need you to make phone call."

Julia screwed up her face. "You need me to call someone for you?" she asked, wary now. He did not answer her, however, and instead grabbed her by the wrist, picking her up and forcing her to her feet. His hand clenched down so tightly that she could feel her own circulation as it pulsed through her veins. Her back hit his chest and she swallowed heavy, suddenly nauseous.

"Your detective," he clarified, hot breath hitting her neck. A soft frightened sob escaped her lips. His grip was painfully tight as she wriggled uncomfortably, earning a whine from her throat. "And then our game will begin. My boss wants to see for himself how he works under pressure. When he arrives, we turn up heat."

Here she stood, a complete and utter stranger holding her mere inches away from him, at his complete and utter mercy. How else could this end aside from her being emotionally scarred for the rest of her life? She would end up just another face on a milk carton. Julia's dread subsided momentarily as the phone was brought to her ear. She listened to the sound of the call being put through, her toes curling within her shoes as her fear built.  _Pick up, please!_

_Bbrrr... rrrrrr.... Rr-rr.... Rrrrrr..._

" _Julie_." The response was immediate, his voice cutting and straight-forward, yet emotional. All anger and frustration toward the detective melted away. Tears sprung into her eyes and her throat tightened. He sounded worried, absolutely frantic. In the background, she could make out the sound of John arguing with somebody, and her aunt sobbing hysterically, something about her niece and her little girl...

She began to weep, her tone pitifully weak. "Sherlock..."

"Where are you? Are you alright?" he demanded, persistent as always.

"I-I don't know, I thought I was getting a ride to Baker Street, but now—"

Her captor's breath tickled her ear. " _Time's ticking, Julia_..."

"Who was that?" Bronomir's hand tightened even further around her arm and she yelped into the receiver, earning a growl from the man on the other end. His burning ire was audible even through her phone's speaker. "Don't you dare touch her!"

She flinched at the sound, hiccuping softly. He was losing his temper. "Please, don't yell—"

"I need you to tell me where you are, Julia."

"Sherlock, I already told you– I was brought here while unconscious," she plead, shivering and then breaking into a sobbing mess, breath hitching until her chest felt as if it were caving inward. "I'm trying, I am, I..."

The detective interrupted her again, although this time not as rudely. "Julie, listen to me." His voice was soothing. "I'm simply asking you to describe your surroundings. What can you  _see_?"

Her burning eyes shot up and she glanced around. "Bi–big Ben's outside..."

"How close?" Sherlock grilled, his tone cutting and straight to the point.

"I-I don't know, maybe a fe–few blocks?"

"Perhaps we need more of  _motivation_ ," Bronomir piped up, and just before she could protest, the stranger lashed out, slamming the butt of his gun up into her ribs. Pain billowed through her frame, the breath knocked from her body as she collapsed to the ground, his steel grip now releasing and allowing her to slither downward. Vomit surged up through the woman's throat and seeped into the carpet below, surely leaving a stain. After retching a few more times but managing to bring nothing up, she moaned and sank back down flat upon the ground, trembling and whimpering. All she could taste was regurgitated hot cocoa.

"You have an hour,  _Holmes_." The Polish man then ended the call and tossed the device against the adjacent wall, the screen audibly shattering as it burst into pieces.

An hour? Julia sniffled, reaching up and wiping her eyes before rolling over onto her back. "You..." she mumbled. His head turned in the corner of her vision. "You forget that they can tra-track cell phone pings, right?" A pitiful laugh escaped Julia, her chest heaving for air. The pain resonating within her ribs caused her to grit her teeth. "I-I guess I understand why he says people with small minds make him batty!"

Bronomir's boot was suddenly flying right for her head.

 _Pow_. Black.

❧ ❧ ❧

The smelling salts that were forced to her nostrils caused her to flinch. Julia coughed and groaned, her cheek feeling as if it were on fire the moment she awoke. What had happened exactly? Her eyes met his molasses set, the sound of approaching sirens reminding her of how dire the situation was. He said something to her, but she did not quite catch it, her eyes drifting shut once more. It was only when she was forced to her feet by his talon-like clutch that she truly came-to. The balcony windows parted and she stumbled out into the chilly December wind, her entire system wailing in protest, begging for warmth. Her fingers began to go numb as she wrapped her arms around herself. The violent strobe of scarlet and cobalt suddenly filled the entire street, passers-by stopping to gawk at the situation as Lestrade hopped out, followed by Donovan and a few other armed officers.

They took post beside and behind parked vehicles, whether they belonged to pedestrians or themselves. Tears pricked her eyes and she stood there, shivering in the pulsating lights, snow dancing around her and shimmering exquisitely. The next to step into view was John, striding to the middle of the road that was now being blocked off, followed by the svelte wonder himself, trench coat collar popped and scarf tied tight. 

"Julia!" she heard Dr. Watson bellow, a few officers pointing in the direction of their distinct building and jogging over to the doors below them.

The barrel of the man's glock pressed hard into her lower back, earning a whine from her throat. "Jump," he uttered, causing her head to wrench around. She quickly wheeled around, backing up until she found the bars of the terrace. He couldn't possibly be serious, right?

" _What_?" she hissed, narrowing her turquoise eyes.

Bronomir stepped closer, the gun pointed directly at her left breast, ready to take her life in a matter of seconds. Her belly churned at the idea of her blood and gore spraying out onto the snow-littered street below, her body collapsing lifelessly before her enemy, all light and sound and taste gone in an instant. Days that were meant to be lived completely wiped clean from the slate, never to be experienced. "Jump off this balcony... bring your detective to his knees," he repeated, explaining this time. He gestured with the barrel of the gun.

Below, the sound of Lestrade barking through a bullhorn rose above the caterwaul of the EMS vehicles. She could just make out the sound of Sherlock's chattering bass tone, speaking in fluent condescending genius. " _To whom it may concern, we have the building surrounded. Let Miss Fuller go and come out with your hands on the back of your head_."

Julia leaned back, hand gripping the bars behind her. "No!" she insisted, the skin upon her cheek burning slightly with each word she formed. "No, this is ridiculous. Your plan is foiled, Mr. Wledak, and thus so is your game. You have no chance of getting out of this alive—"

"Neither does your flatfoot," Bronomir insisted, his face dull and emotionless. Shaking her head, Julia boldly stepped to the side and made for the entrance of the balcony, only to be snatched up and yanked toward her captor. With as much pressure as possible, he pressed his weapon directly into her tender side, causing her to weaken and gripe in agony, gasping as she was completely overwhelmed by the pain. The two locked eyes, Julia's fine frame beginning to tremble once more, although not it was not just from the temperature. It was in sheer horror. "Either you jump or they all die: the bombs are set to go off in the next building over 'nd the cars in the street. That means your buddies turn to  _mięso mielone_. One life for many. It's easy."

Julia swallowed, mouth gaping as she searched for the words. So many would die, some of which she adored. It began to sink in, just what he wanted her to do, and now she truly understood what this was really all about. This was to get back at London, as a whole, not only Sherlock Holmes. Her heart fluttered in her chest and she numbly fell away as she was released, turning herself around. Julia could already hear the sound of the police firing at those in the building, the seconds ticking by as she took a deep breath. Her eyes shut. One, two, three. Her hands found the railing and she looked down below at the fifteen-foot drop below her. A gust of bitter wind stung her eyes, her auburn hair flying up into the air. Realisation hit her, her hands and legs beginning to lose feeling.

Sherlock's head shot up, along with John's, who shouted for her once more. The world needed them. Her previously shed tears still remained damp upon her face, leaving behind what felt like icy trails in their wake as they gathered upon her chin. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "Mother, father, Blair, auntie... Elliot..." Slowly, she pulled herself up and balanced herself on the edge.

" _WOAH WOAH WOAH_!" John thundered, causing her to flinch. His hands were up in the air, the entire police crew still outside stiffening or standing, waving her down frantically. "What do you think that you're doing?!"

A sob shuttered through her, the rosette's breaths coming in sharp gasps now as panic began to take over.. She continued to recite their names under her breath, mumbling incoherently as she straight herself out completely. The wind buffeted her erect frame, causing her to cringe from the cold. "John Watson... She-Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hoo-Hooper, Jim Moriarty..." 

Her entire being was trembling, but then, a new voice arose and everything went quiet. 

"Julie, just— stop. Think for a moment!" Sherlock plead suddenly, eyes visibly wide even from the distance between them. His voice was her lighthouse on a rocky ocean, standing out above every little scream and call coming from the ground. "Step back from the rail."

A laugh whistled from her mouth. "You don't understand!" she yelled, shaking her head. "It doesn't work that way. I can't just step away, Mr. Holmes!" His mouth became ajar, struggling to find the words. She felt the uncontrollable choking sensation of emotion. She wished to hold back the tears, but they were flooding out in a great stream, her mascara leaking down her rosy face. "If I don't... then it will be you who is next to die."

The detective shook his head, walking closer even despite John's protests. He was becoming impatient. "No, you fool, just listen—"

"You have three minutes," Bronomir growled from behind her, to which she winced.

Okay... he wanted her to listen? He would have to do so first. " _Les voitures sont truquées_." The detective paused, tilting his head in question, and then it seemed to dawn on him. Sherlock immediately wheeled around and she could hear John's name pass his lips, the two discussing something as Lestrade raced over, reeling back as he realised what was happening. Sherlock knew. They all knew. A faint smile fell upon her lips.

Bronomir did too.  _Click_. The gun's safety was removed. Her eyes welded shut and she felt herself sway, ready to take the leap, ready to fall for Sherlock. If he could sacrifice himself, so could she. Perhaps she would even make it out alive? Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were her prodigies, and always had been, even with Elliot at her side. Her eyes were gummy from her constant weeping, her body beginning to grow exhausted. Taking one last look out across the Christmas-struck city, she took a breath and splayed her arms out as if to catch the wind and fly away.

Julia let go. She heard the explosive shattering of a lock.

_I'll make it. I believe in them. I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

Suddenly, a gunshot. Weightless one moment, she expected to fall through the air and then hit the ground, never to feel anything ever again, and yet somehow, as she careened over the railing, her world slipping into hollow silence, she felt two sets of hands latch onto her and yank her back, tearing her from her perch and dragging her back into the room to safety. She stumbled to a stop, and before she knew it, her weak knees had given out and she was on the ground, a panicking mess as the moment's severity dawned on her. 

Julia had just about taken her own life, all in order to protect the people she cared for. One life in exchange for others. Her hands covered her mouth and she glanced over at the man slumped against the door-frame leading outside, his brain matter sprayed up the wall and his jaw hanging open, a plume of crimson replacing his teeth. He was still and lifeless, the emergency respondents moving to the body.

As soon as her head turned, she saw John's angry expression as he tackled one of Bronomir's men to the ground in a flurry. The gentleman below him cried out as the police joined the veteran in pinning him down, scrambling to handcuff him while John pressed his knee into his spine as hard as he possibly could. Not even half a moment later, the next to enter was the detective himself. His eyes immediately fell upon her as if she were the only one present, his trench coat flapping open in the dim light that tumbled in through the open door. 

Like a spirit, he swept around the fiasco in his way and knelt by her side. Her hands flew up, promptly cupping his cold cheeks, and suddenly he was there, he was real and he was looking at her living, breathing soul instead of a cold, dead corpse. Julia had survived. "Oh– g-god-d.." she whimpered, crumbling into the man's warm body. "I'm s-so sorry, Sherlock, I-I—"

"She's freezing," he said, ignoring her apologies. His deep vocals hummed against her ear as she drowned in his body temperature and his scent, another set of hands alerting her to John's immediately presence. The living culprit cussed and shouted in his native tongue as he was dragged out, kicking and struggling against his restraints. Enveloped, she was, in their arms as all three of them embraced in a moment of relief. She felt John's lips brush her crown, felt Sherlock's fingers searching her quivering limbs and brush hair from her heart-shaped face.

John's voice was soothing as Sherlock finally tore himself away, her talons finding his scarf as the man wrapped it around her neck. The doctor's coat was next, draped across her shaking shoulders as he tried to warm her up after she had stood unprotected, out in the snow squall that the evening had quickly turned into. "It's alright, love, you're safe now," Watson consoled, carefully helping her to her feet and following after Sherlock as he lead the way out into the hall.

She vaguely noticed how the detective offered a hand as they made it to the small, cramped staircase, both him and his colleague assisting her as she blindly stepped down the winding timber. Julia's teeth chattered violently, her body shuddering without mercy, attempting to restore its own natural warmth but failing. "The– the bombs?" she questioned as they travelled through the long-since vacated bar and out into the surrounding buzz outside. The paramedics rushed to her and she was handed off, given a comfort blanket in place of their garments.

"They've been disabled," Sherlock replied, nearly monotone as he hastily followed behind. "If not for your hint, we would have never guessed. It was obvious as soon as you pointed it out..." He paused. "You shouldn't have been as reckless. If he had caught on any quicker, you could have been shot." 

They had to ease her down carefully upon the metal surface of the open ambulance, seeing as how frigid and sore she was now. She was examined thoroughly, a flashlight being shown into her eyes. As soon as they asked her to breathe, a stethoscope being pressed into her back, Julia cried out. Heads turned in alarm. The paramedics asked to pull up her shirt, revealing a nasty plume of eggplant and emerald upon her flesh from where Bronomir had hit her. 

Sherlock's brow cocked and John's jaw set. "What did he do to you?" the doctor demanded.

Beginning to straighten up from where she was sitting on the back-end of the vehicle, she clenched her teeth against the pain and did as she was told, listening to the paramedics as they mentioned something about a possibly cracked rib. "He was trying to motivate Sherlock," she admitted softly, keeping her eyes averted. Julia's shirt was rolled back down, one of her dainty hands reaching for her injury. "He was fascinated by how he worked, wanted to see it for one final time, I suppose."

"And he admitted to everything?" Donovan quizzed.

Julia nodded gently. "Mentioned strains elsewhere, something about his boss..." The young woman cringed as she was asked to get up into the vehicle so they could perform a more intensive examination. Her head immediately turned to the two she did not wish to part from and was surprised when John broke the silence.

"Right," he said rather matter-of-factually. He nodded curtly and climbed up into the ambulance, followed by an eager Sherlock.

"Wait! We haven't even reviewed or closed the case—" protested the raven beauty, swathed in her coat and hat, a hand upon her gun. "The bodies need to be examined and we need to question bystanders still."

Without more than three seconds to spare, the detective blocked the doorway and grabbed either door. "Bronomir planned to blow up the whole street unless Julia decided to jump to her death, evidently getting back at us, considering we destroyed his business and source of steady income. He was going to shoot himself in the head no matter the outcome."

"But—"

"Julia comes first," John piped up, and with that, Mr. Holmes shut the doors, leaving all three alone together inside the cabin of the ambulance. Outside, Lestrade offered his partner a flat-lipped grin and shook his head, shrugging at her confused look. The vehicle then began to move and Julia found herself leaning into John, her head resting upon his shoulder as they were rocked from side to side, the paramedic inside with them handing her a bottle of water. 

She took eager sips and eventually laid all her weight against John, her free hand in Sherlock's, feeling how tightly he gripped it, as if silently promising to never let her go again. Julia eventually grew so exhausted that she could hardly keep her swelling eyes open, soon falling asleep there while nestled between her two best friends. 


	20. Endorphins

 

❧

Fractals. Scarlet. A stray thread. Tumbling ribbon.

Breathing in hydrogen, exhaling carbon.

Veins of mercury, heart of aluminium. Cold sand, crushing weight, seeing spots. A dense collection of musical notes, all colliding in a symphony of piccolos and violas and cellos, each with its own song, each all the more grating. Their volume rose higher and higher until it overwhelmed his senses, submerging him, asphyxiating him.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice strained above the white-noise between his ears. With one deep and steady breath, he came-to and found himself staring directly at John Watson, who was sitting rigid in his chair, a look of fright upon his face as he quickly gathered to his feet. "John!" One moment he had been visualising the winding staircase and various doors of his immaculate inner confines, and the next he had tuned into reality, being rudely dragged back down to earth by the hysteric wail of his landlady. The detective bit back a growl that threatened to rise within his throat, his steepled hands wilting into his lap and his entire physique deflating. What on earth could she be going on about now? John rushed to the window; Sherlock's ears were slowly growing more acute. No piano upstairs, how odd. Julia was typically back at this hour, preparing to start her usual evening concert of Mozart or Bernstein. Instead, he was abruptly startled to hear the sound of screaming sirens. They were deafening, howling into the peaceful nine o'clock silence, drawing those partially submerged in their lazy after-supper activities out of their holes.

Usually he would call, would he not? Sherlock quickly stood, coming to hover with his company at the window, peering down at the rhythmic dancing lights. The vehicle in the lead erupted with a great shill, loud enough for the hair on the back of Watson's neck to rise, and then all at once it came to a stop, parking out front of 221B. "This makes absolutely no sense," muttered Sherlock, brows furrowing. What could be so urgent? A bomb threat? A bank robbery? Why would Lestrade be here? The sound of car doors slamming drew him from his thoughts and he immediately turned to the flat's open egress.

"What do you think it could be, at this hour?" John pondered, giving a voice to Sherlock's subconscious puzzling.

Sherlock adjusted his jacket and buttoned it up, shaking his mop of dark curls. "Whatever it is, they're urgent to get to us." The clangour of heavy shoes dashing up the steps to 221B were urgent and persistent: one woman, two men, three hammering heartbeats. The gentleman laid eyes upon Sally Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade, the raven beauty in question holding a doubtful expression while his companion held that of worry. Worry? His hand was unsteady at his side, his phone wrapped within his fingers until they turned white.

"What's all this about?" inquired his flatmate, almost immediately drawing them from their disquiet stares. There was something they were withholding, something unspoken, seeing as there had not been a word from them since they had stepped foot inside of the little scrappy apartment.

Sherlock crossed his arms, bringing a hand to his cheek. "Is there some reason why you've come to find me personally rather than contacting me through text?" he drawled bitterly, taking great displeasure in the inspector's rude entrance. "Surely it can't be that urgent."

"That's the thing," Sally piped up, her voice almost gravelly. A new face emerged through the doorway, causing the blood within Sherlock's veins to run ice-cold, his heart coming to a standstill. His hair was a mess, indicating a great amount of stress, his face as white as a sheet and his eyes moist and frightened. Elliot Francis, in the flesh, and without his plus-one. Sherlock's gut plunged, and for the first time in a long long while, he felt dread overcome him. His lips fell open slightly.

"Elliot here gave us a ring an hour ago," Lestrade explained gravely. "Told us that Julia went out to get his phone but never came back to the restaurant they were at. He found the vehicle's door open and his phone on the sidewalk, but there was no sign of her."

Sherlock's eyes latched onto the man's freckled face, watching as he visibly flinched beneath his gaze. "She wasn't the type to just up n' vanish," he remarked, eyes falling away. "I looked for her, thought she may have just run into an old friend down the street, but I couldn't find any trace of her."

The detective silently seethed, narrowing his arctic eyes. What a pathetic man he was, standing there, ashamed and timid. He knew it was his doing, he knew that it had been him that had forced her into this position. She wasn't visiting a friend, now was she? His stupidity was noxious. Of course it was his fault, but the detective had to wonder if he needed to grind it into his face for him to really realise the weight of it all.

John looked to Sherlock and then back toward the group standing in front of him. "No leads, whatsoever?" he asked, just as blown away as the detective was.

"A nearby pub mentioned something about a commotion, about a woman running from a few strangers, but they told us that she ran across the street and practically disappeared," Sally confirmed, lips pressing into a thin line. "Does she know London well?"

"She was practically floundering in the underground when we brought her down," Sherlock hastily recalled, shaking his head. "If she was somehow swept up in a tidal wave of people, she'd somehow manage to end up in Timbuktu!" This was ridiculous, did they not know a thing about Julia? It was hard to miss her distracting copper crown, hard to misplace a girl such as her. She was trusting without restraint, so much so that one could read her like an open book. Since the day he had met her, he could tell that she had no sense of direction around London and its harsh urban landscape; she had looked as if she had stepped out of a story book, an animate, impeccable illustration with no bounds or limits. She was colour and sound and sky, indescribable and vibrant and unpredictable. A flame, and yet somehow so naive, young, and gullible, much like a child. With a hiss of frustration, he wheeled around on his heels and brought a splayed hand to his brow, allowing it to rest between the webbing of his thumb and index. Oh, that stupid girl!

"We have units searching all over downtown and yet they have not been able to find hide nor hair of her," Lestrade griped, clearly just as perplexed as the detective and his associate. "We're contemplating on bringing out the K9 unit..." The man's voice melted into a constant hum within the back of his skull, his attention falling to the phone within his left pocket. His hand slithered down inside and retrieved it, the screen's harrowing blue light illuminating his dark inky pupils, his foot tapping anxiously. Sherlock read their last message and he could feel his own consternation swim to every nerve-ending and every blood cell, carving his chest open with an ache so deep that he could hardly feel anything other than his own fingers across the keyboard.

His eyes ran over it again and again: 1 Missed call from Julia Fuller.

"She attempted to call me earlier," he astonished softly, bringing the leaden conversation to a grinding halt. Heads turned in his direction, completely bewildered.

"And you didn't answer?" accused Sally Donovan, a hand rising in the air in disbelief. The woman was on a mission to get answers. "Are you kidding?"

"I suppose I never heard it go off—"

John stepped between the two, as if afraid that the sergeant would try and tear into him with her deadly teeth and claws. Sherlock ran a hand up into his hair, realization beginning to sink in. "Step back," the doctor warned. "I'm to blame as well. I heard it ringing and I didn't alert him to it."

The last message he had sent her now seared deep into his brain.

**Leave it at that. Call 221B if there**   
**is any trouble. - S.H**

(12/23/11, 11:18AM)

"How could you just lose her like that?" the sergeant demanded. "You'd think it would be simple to keep tabs on somebody you consider family, especially for an acclaimed genius."

"Sergeant, with all due respect," Elliot finally joined in, licking his lips nervously. "Sherlock was unaware of the situation when it happened. He doesn't have a sixth-sense, if that's what you think—"

"Oh, don't act so noble, Francis!" hissed the detective, shooting a dirty look over his shoulder, earning a rather contradicting glower from the man. He looked about ready to piss his pants, yet prepared to go to battle. What an odd and silly man this idiot was. "Perhaps if you had considered the severity of the situation from Julia's enlightenment earlier this morning, you would have been smart enough to have retrieved your phone yourself. Is it really so difficult to understand the fact that this business she works in is possibly life-threatening? If your intentions were to test that theory, then congratulations, you've just won the goddamn golden ticket, because she is most definitely being interrogated and possibly injured in the process— and all because of your genius plan to send her outside alone!"

"Sherlock, please—" John plead, his voice breaking in his throat as he began to lose his temper with essentially everybody in the room.

"You treat her as if she's some indoor pet!" Elliot began to hiss, surprisingly bold in a moment of emotion. Sherlock was so close to clearing the distance between them and wringing his neck, ire building with such ferocity that he could feel bile rising in his uneasy stomach. "She doesn't need you doting on her, being at her arm every bloody moment—"

Lestrade finally put his foot down. "Alright, now that's about enough—"

"What in the blue-blazes is going on? I can hear you all from upstairs, arguing back and forth like cats!" A light and airy, yet fretful voice bled out into the harsh disagreement, silencing those taking part. Sherlock looked to the doorway, Mrs. Hudson's worried face filling him with complete and utter regret. His heart fell in his tremulous chest.

The woman's ignorance to the subject of Julia's whereabouts hung heavy in the air, like a looming cloud. "Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade began gently, bringing a hand to her elbow. "I do suggest you sit down first."

"Why?" the elderly woman asked, frown deepening. Her eyes passed over Donovan's expression, followed by Lestrade's, Elliot's, and then finally the doctor, who stood with his arms crossed and his eyes lowered in unrest. His grey-blue set churned like the Atlantic. It was difficult for the soldier, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders. "What is the matter?" Her head turned in his direction, to which Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall away. "Sherlock?"

John swallowed. "Julia's missing," he managed, and Mrs. Hudson's mouth fell open. Her breath stilled upon her tongue before she crumbled altogether. A broken sound escaped her throat which caused Sherlock to question whether somebody had kicked a dog, pushing it over onto its side and breaking a few of its ribs with the toe of their boot. Elliot reached for her, holding her close and helping her over to the nearest chair; John made way for her, pressing a hand to his mouth, as if it physically hurt him to listen to their dear landlady cry over the disappearance of her niece. Sherlock did not blame him.

"M-My little Julia, t-taken.." she wept, mouth hung open as sobs relentlessly poured from her thin lips.

**Tell me where you are. - SH**

(12/23/11, 9:47PM)

The scientist rubbed her upper arm in tender circles, Donovan had stormed out of the room, and Lestrade was left standing in the middle of the room. He remained idle, his hands upon his hips as he gazed around the apartment, and then directly toward him. Sherlock could hear the inspector's shoes stir the carpet beneath. "Sherlock," he muttered gently.

**Give me a sign. Any kind. - SH**

(12/23/11, 9:49PM)

He knew what he was going to say and answered his question. "She would have attempted to make her way back here, seeing as she knows at least a small fraction of London's downtown area. Unfortunately Julia must have travelled in the complete opposite direction, moving too quick to check her phone for a map, no time to stop and ask for help. Fear drove her forward and she ran blindly, hoping to escape them." Sherlock's voice was low and scratchy, as if he had just screamed his lungs out. He stared into the mobile, as if waiting for her to reply and end this whole witch hunt there and then. For the first time in his life, he hoped that he was incorrect. He dreaded the possible outcome. He'd never forgive himself. "Adrenaline is a common enemy that even I myself have struggled with. Julia would have allowed it to control her rather than overcoming it."

**This is no longer funny. - S.H**

(12/23/11, 9:51PM)

**Elliot contacted the police, we're at Baker St**

**right now. Just come home - S.H**

(12/23/11, 9:52PM)

"We don't know where she went," Lestrade stressed. "The last cellular ping was on Netherwood."

"Then look harder!" Holmes snarled, jaw setting.

"What am I to tell Sally, then?" he inquired.

"To look harder," John interjected. Smartass.

**Julia, please, tell me where you are. - S.H**

(12/23/11, 9:52PM)

"You don't think I have every single unit out looking for her?!"

"They aren't doing their job!" Watson countered once more. Quickly, the detective brought the device to his ear, his final straw having been drawn. Sherlock's fingers curled into his palms, listening to the two bark at one another like angry dogs. The tone buzzed twice, then three times, then six. After the eighth, he heard her voice come through the other end. Sherlock, being as distracted as he was, honestly thought that she had finally picked up. Where had she been? Had she been leading them on? What kind of fool would do such a thing just for attention?

You would, his inner John grumbled.

"Hey, you've reached Julia Fuller. Please leave a message and I'll call you back A.S.A.P. I love you, ciao!"

He scoffed, tearing the phone away from his ear. "Julie, this isn't funny. I need you to tell me where you are so we can come find you. Playing stubborn is no way to go about this," he growled into the microphone. "I highly doubt you'd prefer to spend your night out in the snow, so I suggest that you answer your calls and texts." He then quickly hit end-call, and waited.

"You act as if she wasn't picked up by strangers!" John suddenly spat, turning on him.

Sherlock's hands shot up into the air. "There is no way that they could have found her and taken her without being noticed!" he spat. "Someone surely would have seen this happening and contacted the police."

"Two people did just that, are you daft?!"

He laughed, actually laughed. "I am clearly the only logical-thinking person in the room!"

"She's gone, Sherlock, like a goddamn shadow in the night," John bloviated, jabbing a finger down toward the floor at his feet. "And those bastards that tried to kill you— to kill us— have her. Now get your head out of your fucking arse and—"

"Sher-Sherlock—" Mrs. Hudson hiccuped, drawing his attention. The room went quiet. His anger began to immediately die. Her eyes were rheumy, her usual simple setup of makeup now slightly smeared, similar to wet smudges of charcoal. "You have to find her. You have to. Please."

The detective felt his breath hitch slightly and he lowered the phone to the surface of their singular coffee table. He found himself crossing over to the helpless woman settled beside Julia's lover, taking a knee and collecting her hands in his own. For a moment he simply studied her face, until she spoke once more, her words jading his imperious act.

"I know you're worried, darling. I am too... but please, just... just cooperate with the lovely inspector, please. Just for Julia, just for tonight."

Sherlock didn't have to look up to know that John was looking toward the frosted crown of the confused officer to his back, or that Elliot's eyes studying him as if he were the strangest animal he had ever seen. With a heavy sigh, his head bowed slightly and he allowed his landlady to stroke his pale cheeks. Nodding, he stood and turned to Lestrade. "I need every tiny bit of information you have on these eye-witness accounts. Pull aside a few of your officers. I'll meet you down on Netherwood."

Lestrade swallowed in the dim light and dipped his head, wheeling around and heading for the door. The scientist settled next to Mrs. Hudson turned his head, watching. "What do you need me to do?" he suddenly inquired, brows knit together.

Elliot's eyes pinched when he was worried.

"Stay here with Mrs. Hudson, keep an eye on the flat," Sherlock directed, shooting him a fleeting glare. He once again dialled her number and listened to the droning tone on the other end. His heart beat out of his chest when he heard her voice once more, although this time he knew better than to assume that she would be the one to really answer.

When the soft beep sang in his ear, he was at a loss for words, moving to grab his coat. "What I said before, disregard that. Just stay put." We're coming to get you— I am coming to get you. He wanted to say those words, but with Elliot in the room, for some ridiculous reason it felt inappropriate. The syllables, their accents of articulation, they all stuck to his gums and taste-buds like molasses. "I'm sorry."

Enough said, he stuffed his phone into his coat pocket and handed off John's own jumper, which he struggled into in a hurry. Just as he finished tying his royal scarf when his phone suddenly erupted to life. A dozen firecrackers went off in his head, the shriek of his ringtone creating vigorous sparks of silver behind his eyes. His chest thrummed with two singular words, pulse throbbing rhythmically, in tandem, over and over again. It's her, it's her, it's her.

They all sat there, completely frozen, until Elliot piped up, "Well, somebody answer it!"

Before he had even finished his sentence, he shot across the room, slamming his gloves on the table. Don't hang up, was all he could silently beg. Don't hang up! It felt as if it took millennia for his fingers to find the button he needed, as if it were eons before he brought the speaker to his ear, and yet it took only a mere 12.3 milliseconds for his thalamus to communicate with his amygdala, trillions of neurotransmitters creating a frenzied dance throughout his body from his toes to the tip of his tongue. Hearing a trembling breath on the other end, his mouth flew open and spat out the first thing that came to mind.

"Julie!" Sherlock blurted, both overwrought and relieved all at once.

"Sherlock..." Her soprano acoustics could stop time.

"Inspector! Greg, she's on the phone!" John bellowed, taking the tone of a well-qualified soldier. Did the heat of the moment bring him back to the battlefield?

"Wha'?" the inspector shouted back. Idiots.

"Get your sorry carcass out there, wait for instructions!"

Mrs. Hudson was bawling once more, right into Elliot's chest, who gripped her with ferocity as he too relaxed. Everybody within the room was talking and there was too much nose, too much sound, so much so that his brain was bursting at the seams. He needed silence, he just could not, for the life of him, remove himself his complete attention from the woman on the other end of the phone. "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I-I don't know, I thought I was getting a ride to Baker Street," Julia quavered. Of course she had trusted a complete stranger to get her home safely. Stupid, stupid. "But now-"

"Time is ticking, Julia," A heavy, hoarse masculine voice suddenly intruded into Sherlock's hustling thought process, diverting his attention.

"Who was that?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes. As briefly as his inquiry had past his lips, he was nearly startled by the sound of Julia's agonized cry, her pitch only comparable to the shriek of an injured bird, struck by a bullet. A symphony of dying violins. Fear was overcome by a mighty flush of hormones, his fury rising up through his arytenoids and burning its way through his lips, like drinking straight boiling water. Fractious, livid, purely potent. His fists balled tighter and he gritted his teeth. "Don't you dare touch her!"

Julia audibly recoiled at his thunderous voice coming through the other end. "Please, don't yell..."

Momentary eupnea, breathe. Marginally recomposed.

"I need you to tell me where you are, Julia."

"Sherlock, I already told you... besides, I– I was brought here while unconscious," she beseeched, her voice thick and then crackling as she dissolved into tears. Not good. He needed her to remain calm, lest he'd lose her and he would never be able to figure out where she was being held. Why would this man put her on the phone? To get a reaction out of both her and himself. That's what they wanted, that was the ticket. He got off on this type of thing. "I'm trying, I am, I... I.."

He softened, as if it were just the two of them, standing still in a simple glass box, face to face. Shutting his eyes, he stretched out his stiffening fingers; curling them before uncurling, repeat. "Julie, listen to me," he spoke as tenderly as he could. "I'm simply asking you to describe your surroundings." More kick, get the point across, speak sternly now that she had collected herself. "What can you see?"

A pause. "B-Big Ben," she stammered.

"How close?" he grilled, returning to his usual steeliness. The detective's mind began to reverberate, mentally recalling every junction, every turn, every side-street within London's massive stretch.

"I-I don't know, maybe a f-f-ew blocks?" Julia was beginning to flounder once again, her mind and body completely unhinged from one another.

Once more, the man spoke up, yet he could not quite catch what he said. His accent was canorous yet left his English nearly illegible to a degree. "Wh— Ju-Julie—" he stammered, only for his words to die in his throat. Heavy collision, a dull thud followed by the sound of Julia's mangled yelp. Sherlock was beginning to sweat, his entire frame as still as a corpse. "Julie!"

"You have an hour, Holmes."

The line died. Sherlock swung around, shoving his phone violently into his pocket and striding out to the staircase with vigour. John was not far behind him, the two racing for the nearest taxi, flagging it down. He sent an immediate text to Lestrade.

One hour.

The game was on.

 


End file.
